Fire and Lies (19 page)

B
ergen closed the door of Rune’s chambers behind him, not bothering to soften the heavy clump of his boot as he walked.

“Rune,” he called through the dark, void of the usual joviality that accompanied him. “Are you still staring at the ceiling?” he asked, coming to stop at the foot of the bed, where Rune had stretched out onto his stomach.

“Hm.”

A wad of folded vellum notes rested beside Rune’s hand, allowing Bergen to read the scribbled line:

Bound by ancient birth… Silver sea… Aesir sing

The vellum was folded where Bergen couldn’t read the next line and then:

…lost…
crown
King. Lost King…Gold crown.

And again…

…void devours night. K…

Bergen relaxed his hand onto his hilt and grinned.

“Oh, you’ve got it bad if you’re writing prose,” he mumbled where Rune couldn’t hear. “Brother! Rune!”

Bergen added a thump to Rune’s foot buried beneath the furs.

“Your lady is back!”

Rune’s back stiffened, for barely a moment, then relaxed and Bergen thought he heard a sigh into the pillow.

“Where was she?” Rune said, muffled by the pillow.

“We don’t know,” Bergen said. “Gunnar was finishing up with the last feeding when Astrid suddenly was there. So we checked the bower and…” Bergen let his voice trail off rather than reiterate the obvious.

He waited a moment for his brother to make a move before pressing the issue further.

“Are you going to go to her?”

“No,” Rune said into his pillow.

Bergen flinched, taken aback by his decision.

“No bickering, no barrage, no battle?”

“No, Bergen.”

“Well, Hel.”

The heavy clump of his boot confirmed Bergen had moved toward the sitting room and Rune lifted his head.

“Bergen.” The clump of the boot stopped. “Leave her.”

Bergen scowled at the mass on the bed, immobile and unnerved by everything around him.

“Well, one of us should get into it with her and it may as well be me,” he said and closed the sitting room door behind him.

It took Bergen a moment to release the door handle, as he fought to convince himself not to go back in and punch Rune in the face.

“Well?” Torunn’s hushed exclamation jolted him from his irked state.

“Nothing,” he answered, releasing the handle.

“Damn!” Torunn snapped, already thinking hard on the next plan of action.

“Don’t worry about it too much tonight, Torunn,” Bergen said. “I’m sure your wild head will think up something nasty by dawn. Get some sleep.”

He made it as far as Kallan’s room when Bergen called down the hall to Torunn, who nervously gnawed at her thumbnail.

“Goodnight, Torunn.”

* * *

Kallan stared at herself in the glass, happy enough with the gown of warm russet she wore. She normally would don a pair of trousers and a tunic for a day like this, but under the circumstances, she felt it would add a sharper sting to her bite.

She ran a flat palm down her stomach then spun on her heel, gently closing the door of her bower behind her, the Seidr pouch of amadou rested idly on her bedside table.

If you want Bergen’s respect, challenge him and win fast or lose hard.

She played Torunn’s words back as she passed through the corridor, carefully reviewing each word.

Fight them and win. He adores the woman, but respects the blade and nothing throws him into more turmoil than combining the two. He can’t pass up a good mead, a good fight, or a good woman.

Kallan swept through the Great Hall, ignoring the occasional pair of eyes that glowered as she entered the courtyard.

Rune is stubborn and speaks little, keeping his head in most cases where Bergen loses it. He observes while he keeps to himself, careful never to leave an opening. His solitude makes up for Bergen’s unruliness, but don’t underestimate Bergen’s unruliness. It’s a front he uses to throw off your guard.

Kallan’s eyes strayed to the gathering of bare-chested men who planed the logs for the new stable.

If you want Rune’s attention, hit him hard. Get in his face where he can’t get away. He moves fast and, if you let him, he’ll keep ten paces ahead of you. If you’re not watching, you will lose him.

And Geirolf?
Kallan had asked.

Geirolf goes where I go, every time. Let me handle Geirolf.

Kallan slowed her pace as the clang of sparring grew louder from the courtyard. The door had been propped open, allowing the cool breeze to pass through. Forcing her breath steady, Kallan paused in the threshold and thoroughly examined the situation.

Nearly two dozen men had gathered around the barracks, giving large-shouldered Ottar and Bergen the space required to spar with each other. She watched them quietly as Bergen lunged forward, bringing his sword down onto Ottar, who blocked his attack. Sweeping the blade up, Bergen cut through the air to his left where Ottar barely blocked it and pushed Bergen back.

Regaining his balance, Bergen advanced, bringing his sword to the right toward Ottar’s leg. He blocked the sweep as Bergen snapped his elbow with lightning speed into Ottar’s face, breaking his nose in the process.

Ottar stumbled, blinded by the taste of his own blood, but Bergen had no pity. He raised his sword and thrust, stopping directly at Ottar’s throat, where he held the point of his blade.

At once, the barracks erupted into applause. Onlookers exchanged bets while Bergen gave a congratulatory slap to Ottar, who beamed from beneath the red mass on his face. The rumble granted Kallan the time she needed to glide to a table pushed against the wall, which was adorned with a generous collection of swords, daggers, and shields.

With a curious eye, Joren peered from his place against that wall. He leaned with ankles and arms crossed and studied Kallan, intrigued as she scanned each artifact with a critical eye.

“What are you up to?” Joren asked, keeping his voice below the rabble’s expletives. With a hardened cold in her eye, Kallan glanced up at one particular sword that held her attention.

Bergen’s voice boomed through the barracks with ease as he spun about, eager for the next victim. “Anyone here dare best me?”

In reply, Kallan took the black hilt in her hand and balanced it easily on two outstretched fingers, her approval won by its craft.

The display caught Bergen’s eye and a smug smile stretched his face.

“If it’s a long, thick blade the lady wishes, she shouldn’t be looking on the table.”

Fire flickered to life in Kallan’s eyes and she smirked as the barracks burst into uproarious laughter. With a flick of her wrist, she caught the blade and, with a flourish, extended it down to her side as she turned to face him.

“I can best him!” Kallan dared, forcing Joren to squirm uncomfortably in his spot against the wall. Bergen bellowed loudest over the thunder of laughter that filled the barracks. 

“Not without that craft of yours, Seidkona,” Bergen barked between chuckles.

“Without my craft,” Kallan agreed, coolly raising an eyebrow that reinforced her offer.

The barracks grew silent. Bergen glared at the woman, weighing her offer as Ragnar leaned closer from his wall.

“Kallan.”

Kallan held her eye on her challenger.

“You might want to rethink this,” Joren cautioned.

“You’re next,” Kallan said, shifting her gaze to Joren. “How ‘bout it, Bergen?” Kallan belted, returning her attention to Bergen. “Will it be rumored that you were too afraid of being bested by a woman…” There was an outcry of ‘ooh’s. “Or will you be humiliated by losing against one?”

Sweat balled in Bergen’s palms and he forced his breath steady, suddenly aware of how he ached to go head to head with her. He puffed his chest with a deep inhale that fueled the ferocity she stoked. All jocularity was gone as he stared down at the Seidkona from across the room.

“If it’s a lesson you want, Seidkona,” Bergen said, “I will be more than happy to instruct.”

The game was on as the bets were placed, drawing everyone’s attention to the fighting circle. Kallan smiled and glanced at the sword still clasped in hand. With a brandish, she confirmed the balance on her fingers then dropped it to snatch the hilt before it had fallen an inch.

Joren pushed his weight off the wall and came to stand beside Kallan as word passed through the courtyard, gathering onlookers who filled the barracks, muttering excitedly.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Joren asked.

With a smile, Kallan looked up from the blade.

“Where is your king?” she asked, her hardened stare fixed on the scout’s face.

“Seidkona!” Bergen spat with impatience.

Turning from Joren, Kallan joined Bergen in the center of the room, balancing her weight on the balls of her feet. Bending her elbows, Kallan raised the sword to block her body and face, and waited.

“No Seidr now, woman!” Bergen barked.

“No Seidr,” Kallan said with a grin.

Resuming his stance, Bergen shifted his way to Kallan’s right. He lowered his blade and, with patience, tapped Kallan’s sword held firm against the taunt. Kallan and Bergen stepped to the side, shifting their balance as they danced, mirroring the other’s movement.

With might, Bergen swept his blade to Kallan’s right, fully expecting to take her down with his first blow, but Kallan blocked his attack. Again, Bergen brought down his sword, sweeping it toward Kallan’s left, and again to her right. Each time, Kallan met his attack with her blade.

“
N
ot even the slightest scolding?” Geirolf asked from across the war room.

“I’ve been through this with Bergen,” Rune said, not bothering to look up from the maps. “Do I really have to go through this with you?”

“Well, as long as you insist on going through this separately,” Geirolf said, “yes.”

“Next time I’ll send for you.”

“I appreciate it.”

The room fell silent again as Rune studied the lines and curves that were the lakes, forests, and vast mountains of Midgard, stretching on to the far Northlands, where few had seen and fewer had travelled.

“Oh, come on, Rune!” Geirolf’s voice filled the room, but his king only peered over the map. “A quick romp with her ends your misery and makes you tolerable for the rest of us!”

“Leave it alone, Geirolf.” Rune said easily, keeping his eyes on the map.

“What harm could possibly come with a quick release?” Geirolf asked. “Bergen will tell ya, i—”

“I’ve accounted for the loss in the north.” Rune tapped the collection of trees to the north of Gunir. “Bergen confirmed the devastation suffered there prior to the Battle of Swann Dalr.” 

A flash of memory pricked his chest as a sudden flourish of images focused into view of the night before the Battle of Swann Dalr and a certain wandering wench in the wood. Rune closed down the sudden whirl of images and forced his attention to the south.

“The Southern Keep…” Rune pointed to the land between Lake Wanern and the sea. “...has enough men to add to our forces, if it comes to it. Forkbeard hasn’t made a move from his seat in a few years. Trade continues without disruption and the alum and tin are still flowing in.”

“And the salted fish are swimming out.”

Rune peered up from the map. Geirolf grinned and Rune returned his attention to the table.

“The keep should be fine with minimal guard.”

Splaying his hands onto the table, Geirolf leaned toward Rune. The wood creaked beneath his weight.

“Your Majesty.”

Rune gazed at the mass of river lines mingled with forestry that was Swann Dalr. “Bergen reports his group is on alert and at the ready as soon as we have the word.”

“Rune...” Geirolf shifted his face between Rune’s head and the map.

Rune turned a warning glare up at Geirolf.

“Would you at least put the girl out of her misery and go talk to her?” Geirolf asked.

Rune inhaled and held his gaze on Geirolf.

“Joren has been instructed to proceed as usual when Borg arrives.”

Geirolf exhaled loudly.

“I don’t expect Borg to cooperate, so be sure Bergen has his men in position when the Dokkalfr does arrive,” Rune said. “I expect they’ll need to surround him and be ready to close in.”

Geirolf released the table and stood upright as Rune plowed on ahead with the details.

“I want Joren to lead him through their usual proceedings before we make our move. The plan is to take him by force and have him subdued. I expect him to put up a struggle.”

“You’re as stubborn as your father ever was,” Geirolf said, shaking his head.

“Rune!”

Joren’s voice carried from the corridor. His boot stomped up the steps two at a time. Panting, he threw open the door and stopped in the threshold, a bright gleam of amusement in his eye.

“Is he here?” Rune asked, standing upright.

“No,” Joren gasped.” It’s Kallan.”

“What’s wrong?” Geirolf asked.

Grinning from ear to ear, Joren said, “You’ve got to see this.”

* * *

The ring of the blades reached Rune before he could push his way through to the barracks overflowing with people shoving to see. At the head of the line, the secured perimeter of a fighting ring cleared an area for those sparring.

Rune’s heart raced with worry as Bergen lunged for Kallan, which she blocked to follow through with a raised blade above Bergen’s head. He blocked her blow, but Kallan recovered, swinging her blade toward Bergen’s leg. Rune watched him block the advance that sent them into a fury of clashing swords. With each attack, the other met their opponent and blocked the advance head on.

The steel screamed, holding Rune’s eye on the sparring circle. Their swords joined at the hilt and they pushed against the other until Bergen smacked Kallan’s nose with his elbow, sending blood running down her front. Pain split her face.

Rune’s insides thundered with the silent rage that sent his body into a fit of shaking. Too rigid to call out, he stood and watched the blood flow from Kallan’s nose. Pain vibrated her skull, pulsing through the mass of blood. Nevertheless, she retained her focus and swung her sword toward Bergen.

Always once more, their blades met, until Kallan pushed Bergen’s sword down with her own and, releasing her left hand from the hilt, she slammed the base of her hand into Bergen’s cheek, cracking the bone.

He stumbled back, falling to one knee, blinded by the sheer burn that inflamed the whole of his head. His loss of balance allowed Kallan to thrust her blade toward him and stop, holding the point to Bergen’s throat.

The barracks fell silent at the sudden end. Kallan’s short, deep breaths punched the air as she looked down at Bergen through the mass of blood coagulating on her face. In defeat, Bergen relaxed his sword arm and cued the barracks to explode into wolf whistles and cheers.

The blood covering Kallan’s face matched the black from Bergen’s broken cheekbone. Blowing a long breath as she came to stand upright, Kallan lowered her weapon and, with the hardened glower still set in her eyes, extended a hand to Bergen, who paused. Scowling, Bergen slapped her hand away and hoisted himself from the floor, coming to stand to his full height. The men in the barracks fell silent again and waited as Bergen stared hatefully down at Kallan.

Rune wrapped his fingers around
Gramm
’s hilt, ready for Bergen to make a move. No one dared breathed as they waited and watched, taking their cues from Bergen. Holding her bloody head high, refusing to cower or back down, Kallan matched Bergen’s glower. Tightening her grip on her sword, she prepared herself for another round. And all at once, Bergen smiled, barking a laugh that shook the barracks.

Kallan smiled wide, still panting and released her grip on her sword as Bergen dropped his massive arm onto Kallan’s shoulders.

“A woman you may be, Seidkona,” he said, laughing and enclosing her in a hug, “but you’re a fine swordsman, if I do say so myself.”

Unable to stop his hands from shaking, Rune steadied his breath and, without a word of congratulations or acknowledgement, walked back to the keep shaking his head. As he emerged from the back of the crowd, leaving them to their winnings and praise, he made note to kill Bergen later.

* * *

Pull string. Inhale. Aim. Breathe.

Rune released the arrow and held his breath as the arrowhead buried itself into a tree. He drew another arrow from his quiver. With the string pulled taut, he held his breath and took aim for an available target somewhere in the bundle of arrows tightly burrowed together in the tree.

After settling his eye on a less than ideal spot barely above the collection, Rune released his breath and then shot as before, his tension still on the rise as he withdrew another arrow.

Rune forced his breathing steady. He had already passed thrice through the reasons why his anger brewed, each time settling on the same answer.

He relaxed his shoulders and breathed before releasing the arrow.

Replaying the blood splattering across Kallan’s face, he silenced the nausea that flipped his stomach. Rune took aim. He recalled the amusement on Bergen’s face.

Like pitted dogs,
he thought.

The arrow gave off a profound
‘thwit’
then a
‘thunk’
as it struck the wood. But his anger held, still raging as he remembered the bloody mass he had found curled up, near death, in the cave. Near death and now she goes looking for fights.

Another arrow sank into the tree, and a third, until Rune stared blankly at the mass of shafts protruding from the tree’s trunk, his chest rising with every short breath he released. A bead of sweat spilled down his face and he shook, still as frustrated with its source as he had been an hour ago.

Rune tightened his fist around his bow’s riser, not seeing the tree, the arrows, or the daylight passing with every hour. He tried to recall the last time such anger was evoked in him. Each time, instead, his thoughts settled on Kallan.

Forcing his worries silent, Rune pulled another arrow from the quiver and took aim, ready to restart another volley.

* * *

Darkness blanketed the city. Exhaustion forced Rune calm as he pulled himself away from the range and dragged his aching body to his chambers, where he refreshed his nerves with a basin of cold water and a warm mead.

Torunn bustled in and out, making slight mention of his meal growing cold in the hall. With a silent nod, he shuffled about and redressed himself, while the fatigue pacified his rage and pulled him down into complacent submission.

His shoulder throbbed and he felt each shredded muscle in his back with every movement as he pulled his sleeve over his arm and leaned down to fasten his boots. Slowly, he made his way down to the Great Hall, slipping through the back door in his bedchamber, as far from Kallan’s bower as possible.

An unusual buzz filled the Hall downstairs, where the fire roared and the servants shuffled from the kitchen with trays laden with fruits and meats. Warriors entered in handfuls, worn from the day’s training as they settled themselves in place around the tables. Kicking the legs of his chair with a pout, Rune took his seat at the head of a table, eager to dine and leave unseen. A servant shoved a large soapstone plate in front of him and, at once, he hunched over his black pudding, set on ignoring the merriment that flowed in from the barracks. An outburst exploded until the laughter and rabble was almost deafening.

With a scowl, Rune shifted an impassive eye up from his pudding to the collection of warriors, who jostled about fresh with the stench of sparring and training. Bergen sauntered to a place at the table, but not before risking a glance at Rune, who chose that moment to shift his attention to Ottar and the dainty brunette tucked under his arm.

The kick to his stomach turned his bottom lip out in a scowl as Rune grimaced like a bitter, poorly aged curmudgeon. Kallan’s long hair fell to her waist and swayed with every step synchronized to Ottar’s. The laughter in her eyes framed her bright smile as she listened, captivated, by Ottar’s every word.

“I followed that bird call for two hours,” Ottar said above the uproarious merriment, “running around in circles and doubling back, only to find Bergen here had been the damn bird I’d been chasing!”

“I was just as surprised to find your ugly face on the other end, answering my calls!” Bergen said.

Kallan laughed, filling the hall with a warmth that left Rune holding his tankard in a death grip. Ottar found his seat across from Bergen and quickly, eagerly—

Too eagerly,
Rune thought, curling the corner of his lip into his nose.

—guided Kallan onto the bench beside him. Together, the warriors dove into the smorgasbord of breads, stews, sugared fruits, sausages, puddings, and salted wild game splayed out in front of them.

Famished from the day’s training, they swapped mead and meat for anecdote, paying no mind to their grimacing king at the table’s head. Within minutes, as mouths filled with food, the initial thunder of laughter settled into a continuous flow of boisterous sound that mingled with the sweet scent of the seared meats and brewed drink.

The hearth fire battled with the torch light, adding to the glow of the room, and easing Kallan into a drugged state of euphoria that had little to do with the mead. Dropping her guard, she listened to the jovial nature of the men around her.

By mid-bowl, Ottar shifted his weight to face her more comfortably, his body lax from the mead.

“Tell me, lass…” He slurred his baritone. “…where did a woman such as yourself ever learn to fight?”

The question stopped her hand and she lowered the bread soaked with broth to her bowl. Catching the deep scar buried in Bergen’s brow, she shifted her attention to Ottar.