Dolor and Shadow (53 page)

CHAPTER 62

Olaf’s troops were on the move before the morning sun had a chance to awaken the wildlife. Rune panted through the thick, stagnant air left for him within the bag shoved over his head. He had no doubt that they had marched until the sun was high and hot.

The rustling clinks of mail and sword accompanied the dulled clop of the caravan’s footfall as they forced their way through the forests of Raumariki, every step taking them farther from the river’s edge. Conversations peppered with foreign tongue surrounded him like one continuous, garbled hum. The day wore on as Rune caught occasional mention of Vestfold.

The early evening sunset confirmed the fast approaching winter. Rune’s shackles weighed him down until the darkest hours of the day when Olaf’s army stopped for the night.

A hurried bustle engulfed the camp and Rune listened as soldiers built their fires and prepared their beds beneath the stars.

Within minutes, a pair of hands dragged him to a tent and secured him to the center pole. Before the last guard finished securing Rune’s bonds, a rush of cold and light struck his face as the bag that blinded him was ripped away.

Rune scanned his surroundings, taking in every crack and crevice of the tent. There were no pleasantries, save for that of a single lantern and the stale company of a lone guard, his sentinel. Clad in armor with a large scar across his temple, he stood, glaring down at Rune with his beefy arms folded over his chest.

Just outside the tent, a familiar ruckus disrupted the silence and the tent flaps were thrown back as a pair of warriors hauled Kallan into the tent squirming, kicking, and cursing.

“Kallan,” Rune said.

“Rune?” Kallan asked amid her squabble from within the bag tied around her head.

“I’m here,” he said, already fixed on wriggling out of his bonds.

With her hands and feet still bound and harder than necessary, the two warriors dumped her to the ground then took their leave, paying no mind to Rune, who had begun fidgeting with his bonds.

“Can you see where we are?” Kallan asked.

Rune peered at the silent sentinel standing beside the exit.

“I don’t know,” Rune said. Bowing his head, he focused on his fingers, blindly working the intricate knots. “There is talk of Vestfold.”

“Vestfold will delay us a full fortnight,” she said.

“I know.” He seemed indifferent to her objection, choosing instead to focus on the ropes that bound his wrists.

The tent fell silent, the lone guard sulked, and Kallan squirmed until she exhausted herself.

“Rune?” her gentle voice did little to ease his tension.

“Hm.”

“How did you know?”

Silence filled the tent again as she waited for his answer. An occasional grunt and the strain of the rope’s fibers were his only response.

“Know?” he said finally.

“You said Olaf was tracking us.” She attempted to refresh his memory.

Rune gave an extra yank against his bonds before giving up for the moment and relaxing his shoulders with a sigh. He stared again at their silent sentinel. He seemed uninterested in their conversation for the moment.

“I must not have known much seeing as how we’re here, in a tent that reeks of island rats and ale.”

“You said he was an hour behind us,” Kallan said. She had gone limp on the floor.

The tension in the tent thickened as Rune listened to the settling commotion outside that ensured Olaf’s men were bedding down for the night. Kallan continued, paying no mind to the sudden silence.

“Which means the information you had was not your own, or you would have seen he was right behind us and we never would have stopped.”

With a huff, Rune dropped his head against the pole.

“How did I not see them?” Rune muttered.

“You assumed he was a day off because someone told you he was,” Kallan said as if uninterested with Rune’s question.

Silence.

“Who misinformed you?” she asked when it was apparent Rune wasn’t going to speak.

“Kallan,” Rune said. “Can you reach the ropes with your hands?”

Kallan stiffened against the question, seemingly waiting for the sudden bark of a guard, but nothing came.

“He doesn’t understand us,” Rune said. A proud lilt stuck to his voice and Kallan relaxed enough to hunt for the ropes at the end of her hands.

After a few more attempts at loosening their bonds, Rune decided to answer.

“Ori has been trailing us since Jotunheim.”

“Ori,” she whispered.

The name stabbed her memory like a smith’s poker that brought back every vivid stench of Dvergar filth and she remembered her dreams in the mist of corridors and dragons. Her fingers fell limp with a sickness that weakened her nerves and loosened her grip as the darkness enveloped her once more.

Beyond the world of dreams, Ori had found her there in the deepest chasms of a prison she once believed had no end, but that which death would bring. She struggled to see anything beyond the bag blindfold that left her alone in the dark.

“He approached me last night and warned me of Olaf’s progress,” Rune said.

There was silence.

“How do you know of Ori?” Kallan asked. Rune could hear the rage stifled behind her teeth.

“He lent us aid after I freed you in Jotunheim,” Rune said.

“And you accepted?”

“You were wounded, dying, and bare to your skin in the middle of Jotunheim,” Rune said. “You would not have lived without it.”

“You accepted help from a Dvergr?”

“He came to me,” Rune said.

“After knowing what they did to me, you accepted his aid,” she shrieked.

“I had no choice,” Rune said as a second guard entered the tent. Rune watched as the two guards exchanged words in their native tongue.

“Guard!” Kallan shouted. “Untie me! Untie me!”

The silent sentinel moved toward Kallan.

“Leave her! Leave her!” Rune cried.

“You, filth,” Kallan said, tugging at her bound wrists, visibly desperate to stand and fire. “You—” She stopped with a gasp when a blade pressed to her neck and the sentinel cut the ropes from her ankles.

“
Swige, witch
,” the sentinel said, his speech punctuated with a foreign blend of syllables unfamiliar to the Alfar.

Pulling Kallan to her feet, the guard gave a violent shove that sent Kallan stumbling across the tent and into the second guard, who pushed her through the door.

* * *

Kallan squinted against the sudden white light that burned her eyes. The scent of venison and stuffy tent air engulfed her like a warm blanket as the light faded to a softened yellow-orange emitted by firelight and lantern. Tossing aside her blindfold, the guard released her, leaving her arm bruised from his grip.

The large build and wide shoulders of Olaf seemed to fill the entire tent riddled with spears, furs, and maps. A large elkhound, lost in the wonders of dreaming, slept on the floor at the foot of a bed and kicked the air with a hind leg.

“Leave us,” Olaf ordered of the guard, who bowed before taking his leave. Cautiously, Kallan eyed Olaf, who poured himself a glass of mead, disinterested with her company. His lowered guard flaunted his confidence and her urge to slap him intensified.

“Two guards stand outside,” Olaf said, scanning the platter of food and drink before him. “If anything happens in here, they have orders to kill your comrade out there.”

“What do you want?” Kallan said coldly.

Olaf took a trial sip from his drink.

“To wipe out every last Seidkona from this earth,” he said.

“Are you to kill me?”

Olaf leisurely trailed his eyes from her face down to her shoulders, following the slender gown to the hem at her shins.

“That has yet to be decided.”

“And its factor?” Kallan asked.

“On whether or not I need you,” he said, lifting his gaze to her hardened eyes. “For the moment, my curiosity is what stays my hand.”

Olaf polished off the mead and dropped the empty cup to the table.

“I was born to this land and raised on the stories merchants and pirates told of the Alfheim War and the Conflict…” An endless cold descended into his eyes as Olaf spoke. “How your father launched such few numbers against the thousands in Gunir and won.” Olaf picked at a small berry and popped it into his mouth. “That the armor and craft of your people has yet to be matched by any who wasn’t born to the mines of Svartálfaheim.”

Steering away from the food, Olaf sauntered to the map table where Kallan’s possessions lay with Rune’s. He picked up
Blod Tonn
and unsheathed the blade. “How King Tryggve massacred hundreds with such a cool, insatiable rage that the stories reached as far west as the Hag’s Head in Eire’s Land,” Olaf said.

Kallan clenched her jaw and the gash on her face pulsed.

“Yet here you stand the daughter of Eyolf, joined at the side of Tryggve’s son. And, what’s more…you seem to reserve a form of fondness for him.” Olaf grinned. “Oh, how children are fickle. But I must ask. Does he share in your affections?”

“What madness is this of yours that you would keep me imprisoned only to inquire of my girlish fantasies?” Kallan asked.

Olaf’s grin widened.

“It is not the reason for your imprisonment, but I can not deny that I am amused.”

“Amused?” A cold smile began to lift the corner of Kallan’s mouth. “Or interested?”

Olaf shrugged and something in his gaze softened.

“I will not deny the advantage of having a Seidkona’s foresight on my side,” Olaf said, “nor would I reject the hand of a queen of Alfheim to wife.”

Kallan’s face split into a gentle grin.

“And together we would vanquish our enemies,” she mused, catching the firelight in her eye, “starting with the bloodless whelps of Gunir, I suppose.”

“And on to the Dani,” Olaf said, and Kallan cocked her head. A lock of long hair spilled over her shoulder.

“While riding on the life granted by my golden apples,” Kallan lulled in wonder, smiling.

Olaf eyed the curve of her bosom and the slender lines of her neck.

“Together, we could do such extraordinary things,” he said.

Kallan turned her smile down and coldly stared across the fire.

“If you were to extend a dying hand to me in the deserts of the Nordic plains,” she said, “I would turn my back, leaving you to die at the mercy of the Fire Giants.” With every word, Kallan pulled the grin from Olaf’s face. “If you were cracked and bleeding, parched with want for drink, I would not so much as spit on you lest it quench your thirst. Nor will I sate your curiosity, that you may live in misery…perplexed and plagued by unanswered questions.”

In an instant, Olaf’s hand was on her neck, throwing her back against the table behind her. He bore his weight down, crushing her beneath his body.

There was a blast of cold and Olaf growled. “Get out!”

The guard blinked then scurried outside.

Olaf pushed his mouth to her ear.

“Don’t think I haven’t pondered the amount of silver a she-Alfr would fetch at market,” he said, his venom burning her with his hot breath. “There are corners of the world where even you have a marketed value, and there are those who would pay a fine price to add an Alfr to their collection. In the right market, it’s too easy to mistake an Alfr for a Slider.” Horror, masked only by her anger, filled her eyes. “I have half a mind to keep you with me and trade you at port if I didn’t fear your stubbornness wouldn’t cost me half of what you’re worth.”

With a kick of his leg, Olaf pushed harder against her, digging his hipbone into her leg. Kallan winced despite glaring with an adamant hate he could not break.

“Even now, will you not gleam a sliver of fear?” Olaf whispered.

“I would not give you such pleasure,” Kallan said.

“Other pleasures can be taken,” Olaf said, grinding harder.

“I would die by my own hand before allowing my enemy to decide such fate, and you’re wasting my time,” Kallan said.

“Your time?” Olaf grinned between short, sporadic bursts of laughter. “A prisoner dare speaks of wasted time?”

“What do you want?” Kallan said, her patience spent.

Olaf relaxed his weight and released her. Appeased, he watched as Kallan gasped for air and fought to stand.

“I want to know where the apples came from,” Olaf said as he walked the floor, granting her an arm’s length of space to lick her wounds.

“The apples,” Kallan whispered.

“They are one of the coveted treasures of Asgard,” Olaf said, getting down to business. “Grown and tended to by Idunn herself.”

Olaf folded his hands behind his back.

“The Bilrost is lost,” he said. “No one knows the way into Asgard these days. So how is it you came by one of her apples?”

“One of…” Kallan gasped. “It was a gift,” she said.

“A gift,” Olaf repeated. “And who gave it?”

“An old hag who earned Odinn’s favor,” Kallan said.

Olaf snorted and slammed his fist into her face. Grabbing her neck, he pulled her from the floor to his face.

“Don’t taunt me, witch. I’ve done worse things to women far more valuable than you. Where did you get the apple?”

Kallan stared, not budging as the black of her swollen eye filled in to match her cheek, split and bloodied.

“Go and serve your dues to Hel,” she spat.

Olaf’s grip tightened and he pulled her body against his.

“The moon is new tonight,” he said, “and I have only need for one of you. Do you think your comrade will be so willing to risk his life for yours? Do you wish to test him?”

Kallan remained unbending and cold.

With the back of his hand, Olaf struck her again and Kallan fell to the floor.

“Guard,” Olaf said to the door.

A cold blast of air grazed Kallan’s wounds.

“Take her to the lake,” Olaf said. “Let the depths have her.”