Authors: Angela Chrysler
Dolor and Shadow (28 page)
Olaf, King of the North, gazed from the banks of the sea of the Northern Way tucked away in the fjord. All along this land, the water cut into the coast like an outstretched finger that bent the earth. Throughout the North, mountains rose from the water from nearly every bank and tree, shaping and forming the realm of his forbearers, making a settlement difficult at best with limited farming land. But this village was different.
Within the Throendr Fjord, the wide river Nid snaked around the small settlement of Nidaros, transforming the peninsula into a natural fortress carved out by the river’s flow. Flames climbed the early morning sky, rolling over thatch and clay, consuming the village as it spread. Despite skies as clear as the ice, blue water below, a dark cloud had fallen over Nidaros.
Along the docks that lined the beaches at the water’s edge, a handful of longboats creaked as they broke beneath their own weight, weakened by the flames that consumed them. Their masts reached toward the sky like outstretched fingers, clawing the air as if desperate to live.
Amid the thatch-roofed houses, screams of women and children mingled with the ringing blades of his men. The fire worm within him purred and he exchanged a satisfied look with Thorer, who nodded toward the village.
Olaf shifted his gaze and saw what exactly Thorer had signaled to. A plump woman, bleeding and spirited, jiggled as she shuffled. She stepped lively, with a bounce he would not have expected from someone of her years. She had tied back her long, blond hair streaked with thick lines of gray and hoisted the skirts of her apron dress higher than what was necessary to walk up the hill where Olaf and Thorer stood.
She pushed her way past the soldiers, ignoring the dying and dead as a large ring of keys tinkled at her waist. Before she could reach them, before she could unleash her temper, Olaf and Thorer turned their backs and started for the small tent pitched a few spans away.
“I am Olga!”
Olaf spun back around on display and pretended to be vaguely curious about the Throendr.
“Wife of Halvard, Son of Sigurd, daughter of the land of Dofrar.” Olaf grinned at the tightness in her voice. Olga had clearly done her best to harden the gentle lilt in her voice, but failed.
“Your Majesty.” Olaf bowed low, sweeping the ground with the tips of his fingers. He was unusually tall for a son born to the race of a Man. So much so that the point of his domed helmet almost grazed the earth before lifting his eyes back to Olga.
“End your slaughter at once,” Olga shouted, unable to mask the waver in her voice.
With a flourish of his scarlet cloak, Olaf looked back to Thorer, who had patiently waited.
“Kill them all,” Olaf said with a boredom he was sure Olga heard. “Acts of kindness won’t reach the ears of Forkbeard on his high throne in Jutland. And when you find Jarl Hakon, cowering in his corner like the dog he is, bring me his head.”
He spoke loudly, ensuring the peasant heard every word over the ocean’s waves and the sudden creak of a longboat as it split in two. She needed to understand. They all needed to understand.
Olaf disappeared into his tent with Thorer and grinned at the swishing of Olga’s skirts and her haughty steps as she followed.
So predictable
, he thought as Olga slapped back the tent’s hide flap. Olaf pulled the helmet off his shimmering, blond head: as blond as the legends of Fairhair and Olga gasped. Many often had that reaction, but it never ceased to amuse him.
Olaf passed his helmet to Thorer, who added it to the rest of the armor ornately displayed in the corner between a table of fruits and a desk of maps. In the center of the room, a fire burned.
“Daughter of Dofrar,” Olaf said, greeting the Throendr with an air of boredom as he removed his cloak with a flourish and handed it to Thorer.
The warmth of the tent, the glamour of the rich silks and rare, exotic furs did little to deter Olga as she snarled through a guttural hiss.
“Word of your exploits has travelled far,” she said, “reaching as far north as Hordaland. They say you seek to force the Empire’s god on us!”
An impressed glimmer shone in Olaf’s eye.
“That you look to rid us of Odinn and Thor,” Olga said. “But we’ve learned quickly here. You don’t seek to take a birthright back from Hakon or impose the Empire’s beliefs. Throendalog belongs to Dan’s Reach. You target Forkbeard’s land.”
Olaf studied the woman, surprised at her boldness and her accuracy. He looked long and hard, taking care to examine the woman before him. With the right wording, the right timing, he could pass on the very message he hoped would reach Forkbeard.
It was all he could do not to grin.
“Forkbeard’s land
is
my land,” Olaf corrected and slid into a wide, wooden chair, intricately hand carved with the finest of details. “His father usurped my throne long before the North was ripped apart to find me.”
Olga blushed.
“You’re so quick to blame him for the death of your wife,” she said, letting on more than she knew.
Olaf stiffened in his chair, not bothering to keep the darkness within from rising as the woman’s words cut through the old wound that had never healed.
The woman was right,
he thought.
Word has spread.
Olaf hardened his gaze and forced himself to show no pain at the woman’s words. What doubts he had of using her as a messenger vanished as he set his eyes on his target.
“I know my wife,” Olaf said, letting the most of his bottled temper show a bit. “Geira was strong and the last of the bloodline to the throne of Vendland. She didn’t weaken so suddenly, lacking the will or the strength to deliver our firstborn.”
He held his breath.
Olga gasped. “She was with child?”
Olaf shifted an approving glance to Thorer.
“News of her pregnancy reached the ears of Forkbeard,” Olaf said. “A month later, Geira died and the throne of Vendland passed to Forkbeard along with Jutland.”
“Forkbeard,” Olga said. “Then why not declare war on Jutland?” she asked once she recovered her voice. “Why rape the land of your own people?”
Olaf furrowed his face in disapproval.
“Rape is harsh. As your new king, the subjects here are eager to contribute to my campaign if only to ensure their protection from foreign affairs.”
“You call murder and scorched earth in the name of your gods a contribution?” Olga asked.
“God,” Olaf corrected. “And by forcing my hand with the imperial god, I’ll have won the favor of Otto III and the Empire. They pay their endowed well. Svenn Forkbeard won’t see this coming. He will lead Jutland into war against Throendalog. I’ll have the backing of the Seat. And when Svenn dies, my marriage to Tyra will ensure that the land—”
“—falls to you,” Olga said. “You would seek to rule all of the North and Dan’s Reach.”
The peasant’s understanding confirmed the solidity in his plan. He couldn’t help but smile.
“One conquest at a time,” he said. “Where is the Jarl? What hole does Jarl Hakon cower in?”
“Forkbeard won’t stand for this.” Olga’s voice shook. “He’ll draw his attention from Ethelred.”
Olaf grinned.
“I do hope so,” he said. “But Forkbeard is slow to anger. Even now he sits idle while I’m kept warm between the legs of his sister.”
“The people will know,” Olga shrieked. “The people will learn.”
“I am your rightful king!” Olaf’s voice boomed back. “I declare the food you eat, the gods you praise, and the bed-fellows you keep. Now…” He rose to his feet. “Where is your Jarl?”
Olga kept her silence.
“Thorer.” Olaf’s eyes never left her. “Ready the men for departure.”
“In what direction are we heading?” Thorer asked.
“Dofrar,” Olaf growled and watched the blood drain from Olga’s face, leaving her a sickly shade of white beneath the web of aging lines.
With a nod, Thorer conceded, then stopped before carrying out the order.
“And the Seidkonas we found?”
Olaf released Olga from his gaze as he shifted his full attention to Thorer.
“Do any of them carry the pouch?”
Thorer shook his head.
“Not the one you seek.”
Olaf’s face fell with discouragement.
“Tie them to the banks of the Nid at low tide,” Olaf said. “As long as there is breath in me, I will not suffer the Seidr users to live.”
Thorer nodded and, in silence, left Olga, wife of Halvard, son of Sigurd, daughter of Dofrar, to the mercy of Olaf.
Kallan lay listening to her own breath wheeze within her chest somewhere, beyond the world painted black.
“Spriggans sing, across the sea,” Kallan breathed and dropped her head to the side. The light was dim.
“And orange,” Kallan mused. “And far away.”
She shifted her glossy gaze to Nordri.
By the fire, he sat, watching, eagerly waiting for the moment when Ori would walk away. Ori never walked away, not since the night he had found him chanting his rhyme. Occasionally, a verse or two of the dreadful ditty carried through the caves to wake Kallan or lull her to sleep. Always Nordri stared.
Kallan rolled her head away and peered up at the black ceiling. She no longer noticed the bitter tang or the weight of the elding chains or the endless fire that scorched her broken ribs. She was too broken to feel anymore. Deep, thick scabs formed where she laid on the stone the most, and she was always thirsty.
“Forever thirsty.”
Kallan watched a drip of water desperately cling to a stalactite overhead.
Her parched lips—swollen, cracked, and bleeding—left her face numb to the beatings Durin and Blainn eagerly provided. Only after her senses shut down to preserve her sanity, after she surrendered all likelihood of survival, did the Dvergar beat the last of the hope from Kallan.
* * *
The voices behind the haze were silent. Eventually, they too abandoned Kallan, despite their best efforts. The haze of silver, blue, and white clouded Kallan’s mind. There, shapes waxed and waned as they came and went, spilling through the empty, endless room of smooth, silver stone. There, behind the iron wall, images of forgotten memories and ancient voices stirred. It was there Kallan went when she slept, when she slipped into the shadows to hide.
Here, no pain could reach her. Here, Dvergar eyes couldn’t find her.
The haze billowed as Kallan moved with ease through the mist. Distorted shadows of forgotten faces peered from a distance where they were the most obscure. Their voices carried through the silver blue like an endless echo, repeating words they once uttered long ago. Like eternal darkness into the endless moonlight, the haze stretched on.
Aimlessly, Kallan wandered wherever the impulse drove her. She passed many hours like this. Never looking back, she roamed the great Void behind her ironclad wall, drifting about, desperate to lose herself in the haze.
For if I were to lose my way,
Kallan reasoned,
perhaps I should not return at all to the other side of dreaming
.
It was like this, roaming about as it pleased her, that a glint of silver caught her eye in the shadows ahead where the mist was thinnest. Curious, Kallan glided toward the pale, silver light that glistened through the ice blue white.
Through the mist, Kallan slipped over the cold, polished floors following the gray figure in the distant shadow. What began as an ambiguous shade became a woman standing alone in a beam of pale moonlight where the haze diminished.
Solitary and alone, she stood. A lilac gown hugged her form and flowed to her feet without a blemish or ornament to distract from the subject. Her hair hung in long russet ringlets, as dark as clove flowers, past her waist. Simple elegance encompassed the woman whose high cheekbones and slender figure matched Kallan’s perfectly, all but the eyes. Almond eyes with bright rings of gold enclosed black pupils.
Hot, unfallen tears burned Kallan’s eyes and clamped her throat closed. The end of her smashed nose burned and she lowered her gaze to the woman’s left hand. Black characters encircled the base of the woman’s index finger in a ring of Ogham runes. The lines and dashes flowed like webbing, down the back of her hand to and around a tri-corner knot intertwined with a circle. Like a climbing vine, it wove runes around her wrist until an intricate, black bracelet, etched in ancient letterings, had formed.
Kira gave Kallan a soft smile, displaying her perfect, pale face. With burning cheeks, Kallan dropped her eyes to her own bare feet, maimed and calloused from the cave floor. She scrutinized the shredded remnants of her chemise.
“Here she stands,” Kallan whispered. “Lorlenalin’s queen, Dokkalfr and daughter of Eyolf. Here in my glory, my filth, and rags.”
“Kallan.”
Her mother’s voice, so soft, so clear, as she had heard it long ago, lanced her, choking the breath from her, and only then did Kallan realize she had spoken aloud.
Despite the cuts and bruising, her tangled hair matted with filth from the caves, her blood and vomit, the red, black, and broken limbs that made up her body, Kallan raised her eyes to her mother.
And Kira smiled.
They stared at one another, neither speaking for a long time as Kira studied the woman her child had become and Kallan relearned every strand of hair, every curve, and every movement her mother made.
After a while, Kira furrowed her brow.
“Where is the pendant?” she asked without a hint of a reprimand.
The question weighted Kallan’s chest.
“I lost it,” Kallan said, lowering her eyes, and every bit of Kallan ached to fall through the mist and hug her. Her mother’s golden eyes were as sharp as ever. They had never been any other way.
“And the hunter?” Kira asked, adamant and sincere.
Kallan’s shoulders slumped lower. Twice she would disappoint her mother within a single breath.
“I lost him too,” Kallan said and looked at her feet.
A tuft of wind blew, spinning a bit of the haze into a mini tornado at her mangled feet.
“Where is it?”
The deep amber voice rolled over Kallan like warm, sweet sap and Kallan looked back to her mother, but all that remained was the pale moonlight beating down at the empty silver-blue shimmering in the mist.
Behind the haze, Ori sat on a slope of flowstone that had poured and hardened from the stalagmite that fastened her chains. He sported his usual leather overcoat and casually, comfortably, rested an arm loosely on one knee. He stayed in the shadows, seemingly indifferent to her appearance.
“My mother’s gone,” she said, forcing the words from her throat.
If Ori was put off, he didn’t show it. Kallan lay where they had dumped her on the floor of the cave, believing she still stood in the haze.
“This will all end if you give them the pouch,” Ori said.
Kallan cocked her head, unsure if pity clung to his words. An audible grunt of disbelief escaped her throat. It sounded too much like Gudrun and she made a mental note never to do it again.
“I don’t believe that,” she said, “and I’d be the greater fool for thinking it.”
“You look like you don’t believe anyone.”
He didn’t move, but sat quietly as if waiting for an opportunity to come.
“I shouldn’t,” Kallan said and looked back to the pale moonlight. The disappointment was visible on her face. From the corner of her eye, Ori stood from his seat on the flowstone. Having learned to associate any movement with pain, she twitched and Ori froze, allowing her security in his distance.
“You don’t trust me, do you?” Ori asked.
His large figure in the shadow loomed where the last of the mist swirled and diminished around his boots. She met his black, round eyes, unable to see past the smooth, pale skin and black beard.
“You’re one of them,” she said. “You’re the same.”
It was the first time he showed any emotion and the cold, hard calculative stare vanished. Ori held Kallan’s gaze for a long time. She pondered the whys and wherefores of his visit and cursed herself for not seeing it sooner.
“Why are you here?” Kallan asked, irate that she hadn’t asked this first.
Ori shrugged, closing his eyes briefly as he did so. It stirred a distant memory behind her wall.
“We collect trinkets.”
“Lie,” she said, suddenly aware that she had been slurring through the entire conversation and immediately made the effort to stop.
Ori studied Kallan’s eyes.
“It doesn’t suit you.”
“Lie again.” Kallan spoke more boldly. The haze was clearing.
“No.” Ori shook his head and pointed to the shackles she had forgotten were there. At once, her wrists were heavy again.
“The chains,” he said. “They don’t suit you.”
“Don’t you have someone else’s dreams to invade?” Kallan asked, growing more irritated with his presence.
“You think this is a dream?”
“I know it is,” she said.
Anger was flooding back as energy surged through her. It engulfed her as if taking in a long, deep breath of fresh air. On suspicion alone, she reached her consciousness down to her core, and, like the dragons of lore, the Seidr sparked to life.
“Why are you here?” she whispered, realizing he had evaded her question. Her voice was strong, though raw from disuse.
A grin was his answer, a kind grin that stretched the face beneath his beard.
“You haven’t changed at all, Kallan,” he said with a deep sigh. “And you were right.” He pointed to the chains and solemnly added before walking away, “Sometimes, the dragons are real.”
“Kallan!”
A voice called through the mist somewhere behind her iron wall.
“The dragons are real!”
It came from far away.
The high, soft twitters of a girlish giggle mingled with forgotten squeals and laughter.
“There he is, Ori! There the dragon is!”
“Ori,” Kallan whispered as the voices faded with the haze.
One last time, Ori gazed at the elding chains. The two links that trailed from Kallan’s wrists were free from the single run. The bowl that burned with the bitter tang lay upturned on the floor.
In the darkest corner, at the root of despair, a fire erupted to life. Long abandoned hope awakened, flooding Kallan with a bloodlust only Dvergar blood could sate.
Ori, Nordri, Durin, Blainn, and Motsognir.
If she was going to make a run for it, they would all have to be down, and once she started running, she would not be able to stop, not for a while, at least.
Kallan stood on shaking legs, reminding her that the drug was still clearing her system. She collected the chains in her hand and charged for Ori. Swinging the links down, she smashed them into the back of his head. He was down before she had time to study the room.
Vindictiveness in its rarest form exploded to life as Kallan located Nordri, who sat by the fire alone. She imagined that sick smile of his and fired a double shot of pent-up Seidr from both palms. He fell before he had time to reach for his axe.
Not bothering to watch Nordri fall, Kallan ran in a direction she guessed would take her to the mouth of the cave, already pooling the next ball of Seidr in both palms as Blainn came at her with his axe, but her inhibitions were gone.
Lunging ahead, Kallan threw herself toward Blainn, stopping so close they could have touched. Before his axe came down, Kallan grabbed his face with her left hand, his chest with her right, and fired her Seidr through him.
The blast propelled his body back. He was dead before he hit the wall behind him. With the mouth of the cave in sight, Kallan collected her next round of Seidr and grabbed the chains at her wrists.
So close to the end, Kallan sprinted, battling back the urge to vomit. With every step, pain gored her gut. Fire ate her legs and burned her chest. From the mouth of the cave, Durin emerged, each hand gripping an axe.
While channeling the Seidr through the links, Kallan whipped the elding chains and Durin dropped beneath the lash. Infused with Seidr, the metal whips lashed the air. Swinging the axes toward her feet, Durin lunged. Kallan leapt back, snapping her chains as Seidr flowed from her palms down into the links.
She grazed his back and Durin howled. Her final lash flogged his chest, and Durin fell. At the cave’s end, the clear night sky beckoned her. A breeze blew and the Nordic wind swept her face as she stepped from the stifling Hel of the caves.
Hope engulfed her, easing every fire with the cold, sweet air and the fresh winds, but before she could feel soft grass beneath her bleeding, broken feet, the handle of an axe splintered the back of her head and sent pricks of light through her vision.
Before Kallan hit the ground unconscious, she knew she was no longer in Alfheim.