Authors: Angela Chrysler
Dolor and Shadow (11 page)
Kallan sat among the fire’s glow as Aaric unrolled a map on the table in front of her. Bracing his weight on the back of her chair, the high marshal leaned over Kallan’s shoulder and tapped the lines that were the forest of Swann Dalr. The inked etchings on his hand moved with his finger in the orange light.
“The Ljosalfar have returned from the Southern Keep with the king,” Aaric said. “Everything is on schedule.”
“What are their numbers?” Kallan asked, studying the marking that was the Ljosalfar’s keep positioned on the southernmost borders of Alfheim in the east.
“Daggon’s advance there has decreased their numbers to seven thousand,” Aaric said. “The march back to Swann Dalr has left them weak. They haven’t the stamina to sustain a fight. They’ve secured their camp for the night and our scouts report that most of them now sleep.”
Kallan shifted her gaze to the Ljosalfar keep north of Gunir marked, in faded ink.
“And what of the Dark One?” she asked, gazing up at Aaric. A set of war braids framed his face.
Aaric pulled his hand from the map. “Reports confirm he is still at the Northern Keep where you left him.”
“And their numbers?” Kallan asked. “Do they look to recover and join King Rune at Swann Dalr?”
Aaric shook his head. “The ruse was a success. The Dark One arrived as you predicted. Scouts reported that he and his army left the Northern Keep before Gudrun’s spell wore off. The Dark One rides now to Swann Dalr. He carries word that everyone at the Northern Keep is dead. It will be another two days before the Dark One arrives.”
Kallan nodded. “We’ll be long gone by then. And King Rune?”
“He suspects nothing, nor has he reason to. The diversions we implemented were successful in convincing Rune’s scouts that we pulled back to Lorlenalin.”
Kallan stood, forcing Aaric to stand upright. Absentmindedly, she turned over the white elding bracelet on her wrist.
In the center of the room, the tall fire brazier crackled, exuding its warmth as she crossed the bearskins splayed on the floor of her tent. The table, a chair, and a suit of plain, unmarked armor composed her simple accommodations along with a bed and a chest of clothes. Thick tapestries woven from deep blues and gem-like greens lined the walls besides the occasional standard hung on posts. They added the only color to the brown, earthen room.
Beside the map table, she had tucked away a box with a brass latch. Daggers, swords, and a shield covered her bed.
“What of the Dark One’s scout?” she asked, coming to stand beside the brazier in the room’s center.
“Dispatched,” Aaric said. “King Rune waits for word in Swann Dalr, but assumes no more than the usual skirmish has happened at the Northern Keep. The Dark One believes our troops to the north have withdrawn to Lorlenalin.”
Kallan returned to the map table.
“Notify Daggon,” she said. “I want to depart before dawn. We must be in position and move in while they still sleep. We’ll move the twelve-thousand in here…” Kallan tapped a finger to the west of the words ‘Swann Dalr.’ “…and here,” she said, tapping to the south of the words. “I want Gudrun in position with them.”
“What about the north side?”
Kallan shook her head.
“That side is too steep to climb and forms a natural barrier that closes them in. By leaving the east side open, they won’t grow desperate before they realize what’s happened. What hour is it?”
“The moon has arched,” Aaric said. “Another three hours before dawn.”
“Before dawn,” Kallan muttered.
Replaying the strategy over once more, Kallan returned to the fire. Orange light flickered across her face. Hours ago, she had blocked out the tension and unease felt by her war-men. To her, this was a game and she, too clearly, could see its end. In her mind, King Rune was already dead.
“Kallan.” Kallan ignored the strain in Aaric’s voice. “You know my thoughts on this,” he said. “It isn’t too late to back down.”
Kallan took her eyes from the fire. “We’ve been through this, Aaric,” Kallan said. “I did not spend the past year aligning my men, risking my war-men, and scouring Alfheim to find Rune’s base in Swann Dalr all to back out now.”
“The effort hasn’t been for naught,” Aaric said. “You’ve shown the Ljosalfar what you’re capable of this past fortnight. In four days alone, you’ve sent Daggon’s army against Rune’s Southern Keep while Gudrun single-handedly wiped out the four-thousand to the north, giving you the chance to find Swann Dalr. We can go home and spare the lives, recharge, re-plan, and strike again bef—”
“A move now will clinch this,” she said. “We have a chance to live without war.”
“But why waste the lives, when we have an opportunity to extend a hand for peace?”
“It’s been done,” Kallan said, raising her voice. “We’ve been to war, pulled back, offered peace, and sent out the army against the king’s advancements, losing more numbers in the process. Thousands could have been saved if we simply moved when we should have ages ago.”
“The troops are anxious,” Aaric said. “Tension is on the rise, what with Eyo—”
Kallan stared at Aaric with a cold look of madness.
Aaric tightened his jaw. A hot ember in the fire popped and Kallan relaxed her shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” Kallan replied and returned her gaze to the flames. “Leave me.”
The rugs dampened Aaric’s heavy footsteps and a cool breeze infiltrated the tent as he dropped the hide flap behind him.
Orange light colored the room. Kallan stared into the fire. Inhaling deeply, she pulled her attention back to the present situation and released a long sigh.
The latched box beneath the table caught her eye. After rolling, wrapping, and storing the map, she pulled the box from the floor and emptied its contents onto the table. Within moments, the rich aroma of sweet lavender, sage, and valerian root filled her tent. She positioned various herbs and bottles around a pestle and mortar alongside the trinkets and treasures she pulled from the box. As if her fingers moved without consciousness, Kallan swiftly distributed the powders among a collection of tiny bowls. With a firm hand, she began powdering and combining ingredients that she then sifted into folded packets.
After a long quarter of an hour, Kallan looked up from her work. The troops outside were quiet, like the calm that always came before every storm.
“Swann Dalr,” she whispered and permitted her thoughts to wander to the King of Gunir.
The opportunity was prime. The chance of failure, slim.
To see the face of the man who killed my father…not broken and beaten…but as a king…as his men see him.
“And then I’ll kill him,” she muttered.
Eager anxiety filled her and she decided.
Throwing open the lid of the chest nestled at the foot of her bed, Kallan dug beneath her gowns and collected the Ljosalfar apron dress, the cloak, and the pair of brooches she had secreted away. Placing her pouch onto the table, she stripped her gown and dumped it over the back of the chair.
Gudrun can kill me later
, she mused, pulling the plain brown dress over her chemise and fastening the straps with the brooches.
After pulling the signet ring from her finger and the white bracelet from her wrist, she placed her mother’s pendant on the table beside the ring. Wrapping the threadbare cloak around her shoulders, Kallan freed her hair, and shuffled the contents of her pouch. She found the folded packet among the contents almost immediately and scrutinized the brown powder she poured into her hand like sand.
More than enough for two applications and Astrid.
Bringing her hand to her lips, Kallan blew the powder into the air. With her palm still open, she muttered a spell under her breath. Golden Seidr rolled from her hand in puffs of cloud. It enveloped the powder, then carried it up and around her like a blanket as Kallan whispered the words, all before the powder could waft to the ground. She whispered until a layer of Seidr wrapped and concealed her.
Pushing aside the tent’s hide flap, Kallan peered into the Dokkalfar camp. Soldiers said little as they hovered around fires. Some sharpened swords while others slept, eager to catch a few hours of sleep before battle. In the distance, too far to see, a rigid laugh cut the weight in the air. Aaric was right. Tension was high.
Several paces away, Kallan spotted Daggon with Aaric. The black runes that began on Aaric’s knuckles stretched up his arms and across his shoulders, down to the curve of his back. Daggon shoved a nervous hand through his red hair as he listened to Aaric’s report. Gudrun was nowhere in sight. With a deep breath, Kallan slipped into the camp and rounded her tent to the trees where Astrid grazed beside his tethered tree.
Kallan held her breath, then waited. Once she was certain her passing had gone unnoticed, she made her way to her horse.
“Sh. Sh. Sh,” Kallan hushed as the stallion snorted. After enclosing Astrid in the same blanket of Seidr that concealed her, she pulled herself into the saddle and rode from the Dokkalfar camp to Swann Dalr.
Kallan stared from the trees of Swann Dalr. Ljosalfar spanned the valley out as far as the darkness allowed. Hundreds of lights from campfires and torches peppered the camp. Kallan watched, hidden away in her enemy’s shadows, her whispers heard only by the rolling wind beneath the midnight moon.
“Seven thousand sleep. Seven thousand fathers…seven thousand sons whose wives and mothers will weep, all unaware of their fate the dawn will bring.”
Kallan memorized the face of a lone soldier who sat polishing his sword before a fire.
“Are your thoughts filled by a wife, a lover, your child? When this battle ends, and you, my friend, have fallen, what children will be left to die in Gunir’s streets?” Kallan watched his scarred hands as they slid up the blade with care. “How I hate to kill you,” she whispered. “How I hate more that you seek to kill me, and how I hate most your bloodthirsty king who orders the slaying of my kin.”
Kallan blinked back her hot tears. “How I hate the actions he evokes from me…the life he bestowed upon me. How I hate he, who has made orphans of the children and of me.”
Seven thousand.
All would be dead by morning.
The king’s army slept soundly, some outside around the campfires that still burned, while others slept peacefully within the confines of their tents. Not even a dozen meandered about the camp. Fewer still were posted on guard and walked the perimeter, but that wasn’t why she was there. She was there for him.
Abandoning the safety of the empty mead barrels, Kallan walked a final round through the Ljosalfar camp, desperate to find the king’s tent, desperate to see the face of the man who killed her father, eager to sink her Seidr into him. Kallan searched the Ljosalfar camp nestled within the crook of Swann Dalr, but the black of night had begun to wane as it counted down her last hour.
An hour away, barely more. The spell will be wearing soon.
Suppressing a loud sigh, Kallan bit the corner of her bottom lip and made for the trees. She stepped around a warrior and studied his sleeping face.
Somebody’s son. Somebody’s father.
She frowned at the waste.
This one will be wriggling on the end of my sword soon enough.
Kallan doubled her pace. The trees were just in sight.
A guard walked by and stopped, studying the soil where Kallan’s foot had touched the ground. She held her breath, afraid to move while he searched for the source of her print.
He raised his eyes and looked right through her, peering hard into the shadows where she was heading.
Only when Kallan felt his eyes pierce her beating heart did he move on, leaving Kallan free to breathe and a clear path to the wood. She softened her footfall and hastened her step. Within twenty paces, she had exited the camp. Another ten and the spell wore off. Five paces. A lone Ljosalfr out for an early hunt had spotted her. Two paces more and he was following her.