Fire and Lies (4 page)

“You name any instant within the last moon that I have ever harmed you,” Rune said, “and I’ll set you free at the first sign of nightfall.”

Kallan turned her face away.

“No?” Rune asked. “Didn’t think so.”

Without a word, Rune trudged back to the stern and dropped himself onto the pile of furs, ignoring the banter of laughs exchanged between Bergen and his men.

At the bow, Kallan stared, still idle and still unmoving, distant and dead to the world around her. As Bergen’s men jeered, she gave no sign that she was aware of her surroundings and she sank back into the depths of her mind, back into the black chasms where she harbored the remnants of her iron wall.

L
ight from the setting sun poured over the waters, dowsing the earth in streaks of orange and red. With the evening display, the Ljosalfar leapt from their mundane state to work briskly as they welcomed the stretch of their sea legs. After docking the ships, the men lowered the gangplanks. They stored the yardarms, rolled the barrels of water and food to land, and staked the tie lines, harnessing the ships to shore.

Kallan stared wide-eyed from her place at the fore as she took in the rolling green land that mingled with the winding rivers and lakes of Alfheim only a gangplank’s walk away. Weeks spent scraping her way through Midgard, weeks spent shut away from the light of day—the beatings, the starvation, the cold lake water closing in, the massacre, and blood baths—everything melted away as Alfheim lay, waiting, stretched out before her.

Wringing her hands, Kallan firmly planted her feet on the boat’s deck, lest she begin to bounce eagerly on her heels. The tall blades of grass rippled and bent to the wind like an endless sea of green. But before she could manage her first step, the rich growl of Bergen’s voice pierced her perfect moment.

“Everyone helps,” he said, bombarding Kallan with a fresh helping of animosity.

She turned and Bergen slammed a bundle of animal hides into her chest, re-awakening her to the harsh truth of her situation.

“We don’t give passage to those who don’t earn it,” he said and, scowling, slunk off with an armful of ropes before jumping down from the gangplank into the knee-deep water.

After glowering at the back of his head, Kallan tightened her grip on the furs and followed suit, jumping into the water after him, while doing her best to blend into the caravan. Many Ljosalfar carried an assortment of tents, blankets, weapons, and mead to shore. Others bustled about, digging through the barrels for food. Gunnar led the horses, two at a time, across the encampment and a pair of men rolled a vast soapstone kettle to a tri-stand.

Kallan’s eyes followed the horses to a small group of birch, where the horse master secured their bridles. Satisfied with Astrid’s care, Kallan dumped her furs on the ground beside the collection of barrels and headed back to the ship alone.

“Dokkalfr!”

Bergen’s voice cut into her and she snapped around at attention, daring him to start with a look of detestation.

“What are you doing?” he asked, eyeing her up and down too slowly for her liking.

He still had found no shirt and she furrowed her brow until her whole face frowned. His lax composure reminded her of Rune, forcing her to see the similarities between the two.

“Earning my stay,” she said and marched past the fire and kettle back to the ships, uncertain if he had heard her at all.

With the smallest of grins that tugged at the corner of his mouth, Bergen watched the Seidkona trod to the ships.

Kallan slogged back through the shallow, shore waters. Her wet skirts slapped against her shins, sticking to her legs as she hoisted herself up onto the gangplank. A handful of men exchanged a light chuckle as they tied down the sails and lowered the mast for the night. Keeping her eyes fixed on her task, Kallan dug at the tears that burned from her eyes. Grabbing a bundle of swords, she slung them over her shoulder before Bergen’s men could stop to taunt or jeer. A flash of black and tan cooed as it scurried in a flash of fluff across the main deck, drawing Kallan’s eye for a moment as she watched the ship cat pounce on a rat. Amused by its game, the cat carried off the squeaking rat, decidedly content with itself as Kallan looked over the ship once more.

Another trip to the ship confirmed the vessel was empty and Kallan bustled about the fire, laying out bedrolls. Only after the Ljosalfar began to settle around the campfires, and the kettle brimmed and bubbled joyously with stew, did she risk slipping away to the storage barrels as far from Rune as her captors allowed.

Laughter flowed from the camp, carried on the wind where Kallan sat shivering alone among the barrels. She pulled the oversized leather coat lined with black rabbit fur closer and permitted her thoughts to return to Ori. The Dvergar who had given his coat in exchange for her health was long gone.
Back to the mines of his people
, Kallan mused as she recalled the games she once played in the palaces beneath Jotunheim. Ori’s laugh filled her thoughts and she clutched her arms tightly, as if hugging herself would somehow grant her a level of security there among her enemy.

Kallan dug with the heels of her hands at another wave of tears that threatened her strength. The scent of rabbit and spice reached her nose and her stomach gurgled painfully. She dropped her head back against one of the stacked barrels as she tried to ignore her hunger. The muted drawls of conversation lulled her deeper into a hateful numbness.

The bodies of the Ljosalfar blocked most of the fire’s light, casting shadows across the camp. Their backs were painted black with shadow and night that made them appear as surreal images from the far eastern lands of the Volga trade roads.

The sand crunched and Kallan snapped her attention up. From the shadows of murky backs, Rune walked toward her carrying a bowl. Steam from the contents flitted up into wisps and Kallan swallowed, suddenly aware of the saliva that scraped her dry throat.

“Here,” Rune said, extending the food as he settled himself onto the barrel where Kallan had propped her foot.

With her head slumped to the side, Kallan stared at the camp. The light mood around the fire sliced through her more than any cold shoulder or underhanded slight she had received onboard.

“You choose to starve?” he gently asked, hoping to stir an answer from her.

Kallan sat, unmoving and numb, and feigned disinterest in Rune’s company. He leaned closer just as Bergen’s boisterous voice carried from the camp.

“Rune!” Bergen’s body broke the subtle line of firelight that seeped through the wall of backs. His skin glowed orange among the crowd like a beacon, drawing Kallan’s attention to his bare chest and renewing her rage.

“Come!” Bergen called with a wave of his hand, paying no mind to the Dokkalfr.

Rune raised a hand, buying a moment, and Bergen dropped his shoulders with overdrawn exasperation.

“Kallan?” Rune asked, placing a hand on her knee. Angst erupted within, but Kallan remained inert.

With a sigh and a set of slumped shoulders that too well resembled Bergen, Rune shuffled to his feet, and the rhythmic crunch of the sand returned.

Unmoving, Kallan sat, allowing impassiveness to take her, until the discomfort from immobility forced her to move. The raw emotion left her stale with misery. She glanced at the barrel, where Rune had been sitting, and stopped. Steam still wafted from the stew.

Scrambling, she took up the bowl and devoured its contents in a series of gulps. Her belly ached and her bones throbbed. With a stifled sob, she lowered the bowl, suddenly aware of every bit of abuse her body had endured over the past few weeks.

Gudrun’s laugh and Eilif’s eyes surfaced as thoughts flooded back, of Eyolf buried within the giggles of children and Daggon’s face lit ablaze by her flame. A sob caught in Kallan’s throat and she pressed a palm to her brow. The warmth of the Ori’s laugh echoed in her head and Kallan dropped the bowl. Digging her fist into her forehead, Kallan sobbed until her body shook, she fell over the barrel, and vomited.

T
he night air moved in as Kallan lay within her bedroll. She had waited for most of the Ljosalfar to pass out before daring to crawl into her own bed. Rune had insisted she sleep among them. She had insited she not sleep at all. Rune had compromised by letting her sleep at the edge the camp. She had endured the incessant ridicule and a death threat from Bergen as she settled into her bedroll where the grass grew into the sand.

Kallan lay awake, staring at the moon’s crescent and pondering where Rune was among the sleeping Ljosalfar, knowing he wasn’t too far away. Deciding she didn’t care, she rolled to her side and stared into the dark of the forest.

She breathed in the cool, clean air of Alfheim infused still with the Seidr. Too well, she remembered the thick, heavy air of Midgard. The Seidr had been dormant too long among Men, and no longer infused the land with the energy that granted the elding to the Alfar. Kallan recalled the aged and worn faces of the Men she and Rune had encountered in Migard. They would be dead within a few years. The thought pulled at Kallan’s chest and, desperate to force the tension from her thoughts, Kallan rolled onto her back with a sigh.

The loneliness left by the Ljosalfar entombed her, secluding her with her solitude. The isolated company was colder and far crueler than the dank caves of the Dvergar where she had expected no less than the beatings they gave.

From his tethered tree, Astrid snorted, and hope flickered to life in Kallan. She could be home within a day, if she left now. The evening was still young. She could gain several hours before the Dark One caught up to her.

Kallan gathered her skirts and quietly scuttled from her bed. She didn’t breathe as she crept along the edge of the camp, timing her footfall with the snores of the Ljosalfar as she made her way to the horses.

Slowly, she reached for the reins and Astrid shook his head. The clinks of the bit sounded like a smith’s hammer in the silence.

“Sh. Sh. Sh,” Kallan shushed. Her hand closed around the leather reins.

Just as she moved to untether the bridle, a hand dropped to her wrist like a shackle. Kallan delivered a punch to a face, ripped her pouch from the hand holding it, then bolted into the forest. Bergen’s laughter exploded as Rune clutched his nose, wincing against the red that pooled into his hands and the fire that spread from his nose to his eyes to all over his face.

“Stay here,” Rune said through the instant congestion as he smeared the bloody mass on his face.

Bergen threw his hands up in forfeit.

“Hey, she’s your guest,” Bergen said between pockets of laughter.

With
Gramm
sheathed at his side, and his hand still pinching his nose, Rune bolted into the forest after her.

Kallan rushed through shrubs and trees, desperate to find the thicker foliage that could hide her. The rustling behind her grew louder. Unsure who had found her, she fired her Seidr and fled deeper into the forest, uninterested to learn who followed. The unmistakeable roar of Rune’s Shadow Beast confirmed her pursuer long before he called to her.

“Kallan!”

Pooling her Seidr, Kallan held her curses as Rune came into view and stopped, pausing to catch his breath. Fueled by the rage he stoked within her, Kallan lunged, sending her Seidr ablaze and catching Rune off guard. She felt his Beast rise up and swallow her Seidr, consuming her flame and giving Kallan enough time to reach for her dagger at Rune’s waist. In a single motion, she unsheathed the blade and slashed, forcing Rune to draw his sword.

“Kallan!” he cried, barely blocking her dagger.

She slashed, suddenly aware of the hate, the anger, and the helplessness she had carried through Midgard. Kallan slashed. Knowing the Seidr was useless against Rune’s Beast, Kallan allowed the raw hate to carry down to her blade as she dove and swiped with her dagger.

“Kallan!” Rune said.

Kallan shrieked as she leapt again.

Pivoting, Rune waited until Kallan stabbed at the air. Swiftly he stepped behind her, and wrapped his arm—sword and all—around her waist. Evoking another shriek from Kallan, Rune slipped his hand into her pouch and withdrew an apple moments before Kallan attempted to drive her elbow into his gut. Rune released her in time to miss the elbow and stole a quick bite from her apple as Kallan re-established her balance, turned to face Rune, and lunged again. The pain from Rune’s face subsided.

“Kallan!” Rune said, blocking each blow with his sword. Rune managed another bite of the apple.

The blood stopped flowing and the fire in his face eased. The hole in his shoulder, which Kallan had patched up, re-knitted itself, and Rune sidestepped another blow. With his energy quickly returning, he managed another two bites before Kallan forced him to drop the apple and grasp
Gramm
’s hilt with both hands.

“Fool!” Kallan’s voice shook the trees, leaving behind an echo that filled the sleeping forest.

She sliced through the air with unpredictable madness.
Gramm
barely caught her dagger at the hilt.

“Wretch!” she screamed, springing again.

Rune pivoted, ready for the next attack.

“Coward!” Kallan ended her affront and dropped her arms. Her dagger hung limp at her side.

“You humiliated me!” she shrieked.

Kallan gasped as her body shook with a rage she could no longer contain.

“Did I?” Rune shouted back.

“With your bantering—your coddling! You make me look weak to them!” Kallan said. “You don’t understand the position I’m in! They think me weak! They think me frail! And your coddling only reinforces the weakness they see in me!”

“Would you have me leave you to the rampant will of the wolves?” Rune asked and extended his sword arm out, pointing at the camp with
Gramm
.

“That is exactly what I expect you to do!” she said.

Rune dropped
Gramm
to his side.

“No.” He smirked, shaking his head. “I know what they would do to you! I’ve seen what they do to women like you.”

“They do exactly what men in their position are expected to do!” Kallan said. “What makes you think I don’t know that? What makes you think that I can’t handle myself? That I’m not capable?” She lunged with her dagger, slamming the blade onto
Gramm
’s hilt.” I handle you just fine, don’t I?”

As Rune moved to sweep Kallan’s legs with his foot, Kallan slid their blades down to the ground and connected his nose with her elbow, re-breaking his face and sending Rune stumbling back just as Kallan shoved her blade to his neck.

Rune froze under the knife, putting an end to their fight.

“Don’t you see that we have no other choice?” Rune asked, undaunted by the dagger poised at his throat. “If you go back to Lorlenalin now, this whole thing starts again. More die until no one is left. Is that what you want?”

Kallan maintained her stance, unmoved as she peered through the slits of her eyes.

“Is it?” he almost shouted. He could see her chest rise and fall with each heated breath. “Then kill me!” he said. “Kill me and go home!”

Kallan didn’t move.

With a scoff, Rune shoved her hand away from his neck and shook his head. Kallan let her arm fall as Rune turned, wiping the blood from his nose. He scooped up the half-eaten apple as Kallan dropped the blade. Her shoulders sagged and Kallan fell to her knees.

Without a look back, Rune sheathed
Gramm
and sunk his teeth into the muddy fruit. For a second time that night, his nose reknitted itself and, with more vigor, he proceeded to wipe off as much of the blood as possible.

“Why?”

Rune stopped and looked at Kallan, who remained on the forest floor. Tears streamed down her face as she raised her eyes to his.

“Please answer my why,” she said, her voice hoarse from screaming.

Rune stared, panting to catch his breath as Kallan pushed herself up and forward, falling onto her hands as she called out.

“Why did you follow me? Why did you find me? Why didn’t you leave me to die with the Dvergar?”

Kallan buried her fists into the earth.

“And you still don’t know,” Rune muttered.

“I was dead for you.” She tried to scream. “I was lost to the Dvergar in Midgard. All you had to do was go home! Take my father’s city and win this war! Instead, you find me! You free me! You drew me from the lake. You brought me back here…” Kallan shook her head.” Over and over, when you had the chance to leave me to die, you saved me. Why?”

“Why,” Rune whispered.

“Why!” Kallan screamed. “Please! Answer my why?” She punched the ground. “When this war could have been won and the last of the dying could have their peace, why did you save me?”

Rune’s rage, at last, boiled over. Her eyes so like the lapis stone pleaded like he had never known before…as if imploring him to confirm what she so desperately wanted to know.

Dropping the apple, he fell to his knees and, clasping her face in his hands, he kissed her hungrily. He kissed her long and hard, until she sat up and pushed into him, until her fingers dug into him and drew him closer for want of release—until the black eyes of the Shadow Beast flew open and the Beast unleashed a bear-like roar. It lunged for Kallan’s Seidr, hungry to reach down into her and draw the Seidr right out until none was left for her and she was only a cold corpse lay in Rune’s arms. Rune released Kallan too suddenly, too scared to think what the Beast would have done if it had the chance to touch her.

“That…” he said, staring into her wide, frightened eyes and knowing she sensed the Beast too, “…is why.”

Rune stood, battling back dark thoughts of the beast he harborded and wanting too much to lay back down with Kallan right there. Too quickly he turned and headed back to camp, leaving Kallan there on the forest floor with her pouch.

* * *

Aaric raised his eyes from his papers. Cold sweat formed on his brow. With a shaking hand, he ran his hand over his face as if to wipe the worry away.

“She lives,” Aaric whispered. At once, he leapt from the chair in his chambers and took up a travel sack he quickly crammed with a handful of potions, herbs, and poisons.

I’ll have to move fast. If I felt Kallan’s presence here in Alfheim, there is no doubt that Fand felt it too.

“Drui.”

Fand’s velvet voice slid down Aaric’s spine. Too late, Aaric turned to the balcony where the Fae goddess perched, lax and cool. He had no doubt why she had come at this hour. Her players were aligned right where she wanted them.

“It’s time,” Fand said. With a curious gaze, she looked over Aaric’s bag. “It seems you’re going somewhere?” She asked the question too sweetly.

“Leave this alone, Fand,” Aaric warned.

“And why would I do that?”

“She isn’t yours,” he said. “You have no right.”

“She is Drui,” Fand said. “I have every right.”

“I’ll not let you take her.”

“You can’t stop me.”

Aaric threw his bag to the floor just as white flames burst to life in his palm. Fand dropped her smile.

“You wouldn’t dare—”

Aaric doubled the surge of his Seidr, and the flame doubled in size. The humor was gone from the Fae goddess perched on the railing.

Aaric turned over his second hand and pooled the Seidr. He’d need all he had to take her out.

“You’d be a fool to try,” Fand warned, but Aaric was set. Flame roared to life in his other hand and sleeved his arms as he charged.

Fand leapt down from the balcony’s railing and raised a hand, palm side out, just as Aaric lunged. A blast from Fand filled the room, freezing then catching Aaric in an invisible web that drained his Seidr and held him, several feet in the air. Slits of gold made up Fand’s eyes as she brought Aaric toward her until his face was inches from hers.

“My kind made you, Drui,” she said. “Your powers don’t begin to outstrip mine.”

Aaric tried to speak, but her Seidr bound him inside and out. He was fortunate that she let him breathe.

“You will march the troops to Gunir, and lure her out of her keeper’s care,” she said.