Dolor and Shadow (52 page)

CHAPTER 61

Rune stared into the darkness, replaying Ori’s words. The earliest of morning birds had begun to trill when he stepped into the clearing. Cradling the ball of blue flame, Kallan rotated the sphere as she stared into its white center unaware that Rune watched from behind. The Beast remained at bay, obedient to Rune’s wishes as Kallan extinguished her flame and withdrew her Seidr.

“Olaf is here,” Rune said. “We have an hour, maybe less.”

“How—”

“A raised guard goes a long way.” His throat was dry.

Kallan nodded.

“We need to get a move on,” Rune said, moving back to the trees.

“Rune.”

Her smooth voice grated on him like a smithy’s sandstone. Inhaling, he restored his patience and, cursing himself for knowing better, gazed back at Kallan.

“Your Majesty.”

Kallan bit her bottom lip.

“When we get to Alfheim—”

“You’ll be difficult, I’m sure,” he said and, in hopes of discouraging further conversation, turned back to the wood.

“If I were to go with you to Gunir …” Kallan’s question trailed off.

A light smile pulled at the corner of Rune’s mouth. Forcing his face stern, Rune gazed back.

“Wou—”

A sudden shuffle broke the night and Rune threw his hand up, silencing Kallan. Seconds too late, his steady hand flew to the hilt of his sword as a pommel slammed into the back of his head.

Rune caught himself on one knee, and unsheathing his sword, he swung
Gramm
through his fragmented vision blurred with darkness. Somewhere behind him, Kallan’s Seidr light blazed.

“Ori,” Rune called to the darkness, but a heavy boot caught his face and, just before the world went black, he spotted Kallan unconscious on the ground, her Seidr lines riddled with poison.

* * *

The fire’s light splashed streaks of orange across Olaf’s face as he threw back another large gulp of spiced mead. The thick, sweet beverage was quickly gaining his favor. From the chair positioned beside the map table, Olaf scratched the underside of Vige’s ear. The dog leaned into him then dropped his chin onto Olaf’s thigh, evoking a warm smile from his master.

With the creak of leather and the clink of a sword, a chill swept the room, with it the scent of pine.

“Your Highness,” Warrior Egil said.

“News.”

“We anticipate our arrival in Vestfold within the fortnight. Arrangements have been made for Thorer to meet us there.”

Olaf shook his head and released Vige.

“Tell him not to bother,” Olaf said, downing another gulp. “At this pace, we’ll have joined Thorer’s army before he finds us.”

With a satisfied sigh, Olaf stared at the tarnished flask. He threw back his head and polished off the last of the mead.

“Is the witch talking yet?” Olaf asked.

“No,” Egil said. “Havelock is with them now.”

Olaf gazed at the warrior. Tall, burly, and almost thirty, the scar on his forehead exemplified his valor.

“Cut every last finger from her hand if you have to,” Olaf said. “She’ll show me how those apples work before the night is out.”

Placing the empty tankard on the table, Olaf picked up a pile of letters, attempted to be interested, failed, and tossed them aside again.

“Did you collect their possessions?” Olaf asked, as the dog pulled his head from Olaf’s lap.

“Havelock is,” Egil answered as the dog circled the rug several times then settled itself down beside the fire. “There’s something you—”

A second blast of cold threw their attention to a guard at the door.

“What is it, Havelock?” Olaf asked, irate at the interruption.

“My lord,” Havelock panted. “We have a problem with one of them.”

“So gut him,” Olaf said. “We don’t need him anyway.”

“It’s not him, sire.”

Olaf looked to the soldier and waited in earnest for an explanation.

“It’s the woman. We can’t get near her, sir.”

Before Havelock could say more, Olaf was up and out the door.

* * *

With blue flames alight in both palms, Kallan stood, poised for battle. A wall of Seidr glowed, securing a perimeter around her, shielding her. From warrior to warrior to Havelock, who clutched Rune’s sword and her pouch, Kallan assessed her escape, clear and inviting, behind her.

With her back to the forest, a barricade of swords blocked her passage to the only thing that seemed to keep her there. Rune, forced to the ground, kneeled subdued by a pair of guards, who twisted his arms back and locked his elbows at the joints, ensuring the slightest pressure would break them.

Curious, Olaf studied the Seidkona whose escape was available should she abandon her companion. Olaf threw a careless hand toward Rune.

“What’s the problem here, Havelock?” he asked. “Clearly we have leverage.”

“Let him go,” Kallan said, uninterested with the man who had joined them.

“Hold your positions,” Olaf shouted over Kallan’s command.

Kallan gazed at Olaf donned in fine fur robes, and recognized him as the one who had the power to free Rune, or to break him.

“Release him!”

“I am this land’s high king,” Olaf said. “And you stand in my realm. I alone order my men, witch.”

Kallan’s face tightened as she forced herself calm. Prepared to lunge, Kallan dug her feet into the soil.

“Havelock. Pouch,” Olaf said.

Without hesitation, Havelock tossed Kallan’s pouch to Olaf, who snatched it midair, then threw back the flap and pulled an apple from its contents.

Torchlight glistened off the golden skin reflected in Olaf’s eyes as he turned Idunn’s apple over.

“Show me,” Olaf said, glaring at Kallan.

She clenched her jaw to seal her lips.

Coldly, Olaf threw the apple to the ground. It came to land at Rune’s side.

“Show us,” he said.

Undaunted by his empty promises, Kallan stayed steadfast.

“Apparently, you need to be motivated.” Olaf came to stand beside Rune. “Show us how these work, or…” Olaf buried his fist into Rune’s ribs and his guards released the Ljosalfr.

A flash of silver caught Kallan’s eye as Olaf pulled his fist away, and Rune fell to the ground clutching his chest. Blood pooled in the dirt and Rune’s face fell white.

A sudden burst of Seidr radiated from Kallan’s hands as panic and rage pulsed through her. Streams of flame engulfed the barricade of men and they scattered, fled, or attacked. With a second stream, Kallan broke through the barricade, throwing a ball of flame toward Olaf while maintaining the Seidr-shield around her.

For a moment, her Seidr glowed white from her hands and formed a corporeal sword she grasped at the hilt. Kallan poured her blue flame from the white, and slashed the air with her Seidr-sword as she battled her way to Rune.

Dispelling the sword, Kallan fell to her knees and expanded her shield over Rune. Blood and dirt caked her hands and she pushed him onto his back. She snatched the fruit from the ground before panic could block her senses, and dug her nails into the apple’s flesh. She was muttering the incantation before the apple surrendered its juices.

“Please,” she whispered, angling the apple’s nectar to flow into his mouth, Rune battled to keep his breath. Sweat poured from her pallid brow and, with trembling palms, Kallan called on the only thing she knew could save him. Her mind cleared, the Seidr swelled, and, placing a palm onto his wound, she pulled from her core, guiding her Seidr into him and through him, all the while muttering under her breath.

In silence, Olaf and his men stared at the golden light that seeped from the Dokkalfr, out and through the prisoner. With each word, the spell drained Kallan’s Seidr, weakening her shield until it faded then vanished.

Rune eased his breath and the color returned to his face as his flesh sewed itself together, erasing all evidence of the wound. Only then did Kallan cease her muttering.

“You should have let me die, princess,” Rune whispered darkly.

Olaf purred with a grin, his own pensive gaze fixed on Kallan.

“Egil. Their possessions.”

Obediently, Egil picked up a small bag and Kallan’s dagger from the pile of satchels and blankets that had been stripped from the horses. “There is also this,” Egil said, extending the elding handle of
Blod Tonn
to Olaf.

Olaf eyed the black detail before shifting his attention to the pouch. With fluid movement, he dumped its contents into his hand. Kallan’s pendant fell into his hand alongside a pair of rings. With acute interest, Olaf’s eyes widened as he pushed the rings over with his thumb.

The fire light revealed the detailing of a silver signet ring engraved with the figure of a boar’s head encircled with runes.

“A silver ring with the head of a boar,” Olaf said. “How did you come by the mark of Gunir?” He narrowed his eyes. “Unless…” Olaf turned the ring over in thought, eyeing the runes encircling the boar.

“You are Rune Tryggveson,” he said, restoring his gaze to Rune. “The blood of Lodewuk flows in you.”

Olaf turned his eyes to Kallan.

“Which makes you…” He looked the Dokkalfr over, clearly assessing the tattered gown, iridescent eyes, and the Seidr that flowed from her hands.

“A hired bodyguard, perhaps?” he asked. “One of the Varingjar?”

Kallan’s hands twitched with desire to kill.

“But the Ljosalfar don’t dabble in the Seidr arts and would never hire a woman to fight for them.” Olaf turned over the second ring.

“Elding,” he thought aloud, eyeing the three eternal triangles crossed with a hammer.

Olaf raised his eyes to Kallan’s as understanding clicked into place faster than words could form.

“What is your name?” His dark stare dared her to lie.

“Emma of West Seaxna,” she said.

Olaf closed his hand over the jewelry.

“Your lying tongue betrays you,” Olaf said, “for I have lived on the shores of West Seaxna, witch.” Olaf shook his head. “You are not born of Alfheim.”

He looked at her as if pondering the accent, the lucid shade of her pale skin, and the tapered points of her ears.

“You are of Svartálfaheim…though you lack the rancid stench of Dvergar filth. No…” Olaf shook his head and met Kallan’s gaze. “You were born to the White Opal. You are Dokkalfar.”

With a wave of Olaf’s hands, the guards were on them, swords poised at the Alfar’s throats.

“An elding signet ring,” Olaf said, pouring the treasures back into the bag and exchanging the bag for
Blod Tonn
. “An elding blade…” He unsheathed Kallan’s dagger. “And a pendant marked with the knot of Eire’s Land.”

Kallan watched the Northern king with elusive eyes.

“You are Seidkona.” Olaf eyed her knowingly. “You are Eyolf’s daughter.”

Kallan’s shoulders stiffened at the mention of her father’s name. Her shock didn’t escape Olaf and he lifted his face with smug victory that glowed with regal arrogance.

“Kallan, daughter of Eyolf…Lady of the White Opal…which makes you…” He looked to Kallan as the final pieces slipped into place. “Queen of Lorlenalin.”

Kallan held her head high with contempt, refusing to confirm, refusing to deny his conclusions.

Olaf swiped her blade, slashing Kallan’s face with her dagger.

A guard dropped his hand to Rune’s shoulder as he shifted to leap, keeping Rune in place on the ground. As hot blood flowed down Kallan’s face, a smile stretched across Olaf’s.

“Both monarchs of the divided Alfheim,” Olaf mused. “The only stretch of land that has managed to escape Danelaw this side of the Kattegat.”

Olaf couldn’t hold down the grin that stretched his square chin.

“What would the King of Gunir and Lorlenalin’s queen be doing in the middle of Midgard?” He directed the question to Kallan, who allowed her hate to flow, refusing to satisfy his game with an answer of any kind.

“Bring them both!” Olaf spun on his heel and marched back to his tent. “Alive!”