Fire and Lies (42 page)

Forkbeard clenched his jaw as he watched thousands of spearmen fall beneath the formidable magnitude of the Alfar. Forcing down a mouthful of curses, he delivered his last order.

“Pull back.”

Vagn echoed the order as Forkbeard steered his mount around. He didn’t have to look to know most of them wouldn’t survive the retreat.

With a glance to the abandoned spearmen, Vagn forced his horse to follow his king.

“My lord?” Vagn asked, knowing too well the temper that brewed beneath the silence. “Will we reform and come back?

The cheers and celebration had already exploded from the battlefield behind them.

“I haven’t the troops to take down such an alliance,” Forkbeard said, not bothering to look back at the waste he left behind. “Not without the help of Otto.”

Vagn glanced back, ensuring the Alfar too had pulled back.

“We lost many troops today,” Forkbeard said.

Scowling, he followed the road back to the ships as he stewed in resentful bitterness, writhing with hate for the Alfar.

“I swear this land will pass to my son and he will inherit their land if I have to burn every last tree and scorch the earth behind me.”

Vagn listened with stilled breath, wise enough to hold his tongue.

The Alfar whooped and cheered while those at the front finished off the last of the Dani. Already, the majority of the Alfar had started rejoicing, their celebrations too loud to hear Forkbeard’s words.

T
he greens of Odinn’s Riders streaked the sky with ribbons of light. In silence, they rode overhead as the Valkyrjur gathered their warriors for Valhalla. For a moment, Kallan grinned and wondered why she couldn’t hear them. Soon they would send the Fallen off to sea in flame.

She could hear the boisterous drinking and merriment from Gunir’s keep carry across the river as far as the vacant plains, where she stood alone with the remnants of Astrid. The Alfar had wasted no time opening the best barrels of mead and slaughtering the fattest of pigs, which seemed to cue the festivities that already had lasted for hours.

Despite the cause for celebration, Kallan’s sorrow pulled her from the Great Hall as it burst with merriment. With heavy shoulders, she stood before Astrid’s cold body. With ease, she mustered her Seidr, but battled against the sharp pain that stayed her hand. For a long while, she cradled the ball of white fire until, at last, she sent the flame onto him.

Alone, Kallan watched her Seidr-flame devour the stallion. The fire reached up past the tips of the trees. Flames consumed her friend and crackled as it battled back the darkness that tried and failed to swallow the light. The light of the fire glistened off her silver gown and the Valr that hung delicately around her neck. With Torunn’s help, her hair was combed and pulled back to fall down the length of her back.

“From the sounds of it, the festival won’t be slowing down any time soon.”

Rune’s voice cut in to Kallan’s thoughts and she gazed from the flames to Rune. Like she, he had washed and changed. He had sleeked back his hair and left it untied.

“They’ve all but forgotten they once were enemies only hours ago,” he muttered, coming to stand beside her.

Kallan inhaled deeply.

“It still amazes me,” she said, “how much…”

Rune said nothing as he stared at the rolling fire.

“I want to cry with relief.” Kallan gasped. “But my grief has left my eyes dry.”

She forced her face from the pyre and Rune gazed at the golden rings that glistened brightly by the fire’s light.

“Come,” Rune said, taking her hand and pulling her away from the fire. “They’re asking for you.”

* * *

Kallan felt the warmth of the Great Hall long before they ascended the steps to the courtyard. The blast of jubilation bombarded the senses as Rune led her into the glowing liveliness of the Hall packed with Dokkalfar and Ljosalfar, who passed drink and tales.

The late summer chill that swept into the Hall behind Kallan and Rune did little to deter the mood. With a boom, the Hall burst into a deafening hail that didn’t die out for several long minutes. The wounded had been picked up and welcomed to share in the merriment while others, too wounded to join, had been moved to the war room where Geirolf and Torunn kept vigilant watch through the night.

The fire pit roared beneath the sweet scent of roasted pig, and barrels of mead, hauled from the buttery, rested at the ends of the tables richly strewn with candied fruits, fresh berries, pastries, sausages, puddings, and salted meats along with a large assortment of foreign vittles not even Kallan had seen in Northymbra.

Amid the merriment and laughter, Bergen bellowed and waved, bare-chested and as jovial as ever, urging Rune to guide Kallan to the table. With a grin forming at the edge of her mouth, Kallan felt the first of her spirits begin to lift.

“You’re a bard,” Kallan declared as she locked a disbelieving glare onto Bergen, who beamed.

She had found a seat crammed between Roald and Bergen, who had wasted no time passing trays of meats and cheeses down the long table.

The conversation and frequent belts of laughter were deafening as they filled the Hall.

“That I am!” Bergen proclaimed with the widest of grins and the slightest of slurs. “Bergen the Bard!”

With a hearty gulp, he took down the last of the mead in front of him while Kallan pondered laughing at the entire concept.

“Would you dare look at him and laugh?” Rune asked, leaning across the table to Kallan. “If you couldn’t hold your own against him, I mean.”

She understood his point too perfectly.

“But why?” she asked, forcing back the bout of laughter that bubbled enthusiastically beneath her throat.

“Because,” Roald interjected, staring down into his nearly empty mug of mead. “He didn’t want to wait for the bards to sing his praises.”

Roald threw back his head and polished off the last of his drink. He struck the table with his empty flagon.

“So he studied in Dubh Linn with the finest of Eire’s Land and became a bard,” Roald said. “After that, he went on to Râ-Kedet to further his studies.”

“—and burn down the library,” Rune said into his drink.

Bergen proudly widened his grin, clearly not hearing Rune.

“For the sole purpose of spreading my glory ahead of my time,” he announced to the room, his head cocked high toward the wrought iron wheel overhead. The mead left a glossy sheen in his eyes as he gazed at Kallan. “You should hear some of my tales. I was great.”

Gradually, Kallan dropped her jaw with a widening grin.

“You are
the
‘Bergen the Bard?’” she asked. “Bergen the Bard who used to perform every year at the Tailten Fair in Mide…”

Bergen obtusely nodded in a slightly drunken stupor.

“Bergen the Bard who always sang tales of the north, and of the deeds of the Dark One who fought there?” She repeated the stories back their author.

“That I am!” Bergen beamed, swinging his mug wide over the table still flooded with meats and mead.

“The Dark One,” Kallan mused. “You sang of yourself!”

“Well, I couldn’t very well go around singing about ‘Bergen the Bold’ whilst I was ‘Bergen the Bard’.” Bergen scoffed. “People would know.”

Kallan lowered her voice, forcing Bergen silent to hear.

“This entire time we have shrieked in horror…from a bard. A bard, who coined his own name in songs he composed of himself?”

“Imagine my surprise when my little ditties caught on to the local taverns,” Bergen said and tipped up his flagon.

Unable to hold back, Kallan threw her head back and laughed until tears wet her eyes.

The festivities had hardly diminished as the evening breached the first hours of morning. The kitchens proceeded to supply the constant demand for food and the first of the barrels emptied, requiring more be brought in from the buttery. An uproarious wave of enthusiasts welcomed their arrival as flagons refilled.

“Hops!” Daggon bellowed over the ruckus.

“Gruit!” Bergen barked back. “Hops are bitter and leaves the driest after-taste of tannins in your mouth.”

“Gruit is piss water for babies!” Daggon hollered. “Sugared pears for children! Women drink gruit!”

“Gruit has always been, and will always be, my truest love!” Bergen said. “For there is no finer lass than Gruit, my sweet!”

Daggon sneered, grumbling into his flagon.

“Hops is a man’s drink!”

“Many a lass did I impale with my longsword,” Bergen announced, raising his drink to the ceiling. “But many more did I lose to Gruit, my first, my sweet.”

“Hoooops!” Daggon grumbled.

“Kallan! This one is called, ‘Oh, Gruit, the Dark One Comes,” and Bergen sang, swaying a drink to his own composing:

“There, within the shadowed brink,

The Dark One comes with lavished drink,

For ne’er will a maid there be,

As sweet as my Sweet Gruit, my drink.”

“Bah,” Daggon scowled and chuckled into his drink as Bergen continued.

“Beyond the brink, she comes with me,

My bed that night I’ll share with she.

No deeds were e’er as great as she,

Save for my sword, my tongue, and me.”

Kallan threw back her head and laughed, but Bergen went on, not missing a beat.

“Within the brink and finest hour,

When fullest body, I devoured,

There it was that I deflowered,

The fruits she bore within my bower.

Ne’er mind what Daggon thinks,

Nor what lay beyond the brink,

For when I lay me down to sleep,

My coupled lass, my Gruit will sing,

Although my sword may lose its sheen,

Although sweet Gruit, she may dream,

Of sharper swords, of hops, and things,

To me my Gruit, will always be,

My first, my dearest Gruit, my sweet.”

Bergen ended his song on a grin.

“That was…the most Baldr-bad…Odinn-awful song I have ever heard,” Daggon said.

Bergen burst into laughter. Daggon, mid-chuckle, threw back his head and took in the last of his drink just as Bergen added a slap to Daggon’s back that sent him into a coughing fit.

Shortly thereafter, in a mad scramble, they raced each other to the barrels of mead at the end of the table, stopping to pick off a bit from the pig roast before racing back to the table, each balancing a fresh pint of mead.

“You’d think they grew up together,” Roald muttered. “So what happens now?” he asked slapping the table.

“What does happen now?” Bergen asked as he squeezed himself back onto the bench beside Kallan, spilling a splash or two on her.

Daggon, his mouth stuffed with roast pig, said nothing.

“Well, with the alliance, we have a lot of work in repairing Lorlenalin,” Rune said, snagging a leg of pig from the table. “I imagine we’ll be spending a lot of time there negotiating the treaty between our cities. There’s trades to negotiate, ambassadors to assign…”

“Should probably organize a Thing for next summer,” Daggon added.

“And what of Gunir?” Bergen asked, dropping his flagon to the table. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Compose a song,” Kallan said. “You can call it ‘The Woes of Bergen the Bore.”

Bergen scowled at the half-eaten platter between him and his brother.

“You know how I feel about responsibility and rules,” Bergen said.

“I’m sure you’ll find a way to put your new position to use.” Rune sunk his teeth into the meat before suggesting, “You can use it to woo your wenches.”

F
rom the window of Kallan’s bower, propped comfortably in the window’s sill, Rune stared through the dark of night into the distance. Pillars of smoke rose from the lake to the sky. At just the right angle, he could see the red flames engulf the twelve ships, their light reflecting on the black sheet of water. From there the flames followed the clouds of billowing smoke beneath the waning crescent moon that provided sufficient light across Gunir.

With a sigh, Kallan splayed out a gown over her bed alongside five others as the door of her sitting room opened.

“Still here, Brother?” Bergen asked as he entered the bedchamber.

Rune said nothing, not bothering to look away from the longships engulfed in flame.

“The children and Elders from the Northern Keep have settled in, and Geirolf is seeing to the children.”

“How are they?” Rune asked, not moving from his place in the window.

“Tired,” Bergen said. “A handful returned sick with the cold that’s moved in, but overall, happy to be home. Torunn has the best venison stew on the fire downstairs.”

Rune nodded in approval and stared out to the lake in thought.

“You’re leaving tomorrow, then?” Bergen asked Kallan as she proceeded to straighten the dresses.

“First thing,” she said.

Bergen thought for a moment as he tried to decide if he heard disappointment or relief in her voice.

“And what of you?” he asked, looking to Rune in the window. “How long before you head out?”

“There!” Kallan said as she finished straightening the skirt of her last gown. “This should be enough.”

Eyeing the half-dozen gowns one last time, Kallan plopped herself over the end of the bed, arms wide, and scooped up the gowns in a single armload before dragging them to the doorway and Bergen.

“Here,” she said, grinning, and promptly dumped the gowns onto Bergen.

“Wha—”

“Get them to Torunn,” Kallan said. “She’s waiting.”

“Ugh,” Bergen groaned as if Kallan had just dumped a bucket of mud onto him. “Women’s work.”

“I didn’t ask you to sew them for the orphans,” Kallan said. “I asked you to take them to Torunn.”

Kallan listened with delight as Bergen sauntered off back through the sitting room and down the hall.

The heat from the hearth fire battled against the growing chill outside. Kallan glanced at the collection of herbs and spells she had already tucked neatly away with her satchel beside the bed.

“You’re lost, Rune,” Kallan said. “The Shadow has your mind.”

Rune kept his eyes on the ships on the horizon and watched the flames lap the sky.

“The Fendinn is there,” he said after a long while. “I can feel it. But it’s silent. It hasn’t moved since…”

Rune sighed and leaned his head back against the window frame. “I don’t know if I’m relieved or worried,” he said. “Maybe both. I don’t know.”

“What will you do now?” Kallan asked.

“There isn’t much choice,” he muttered. “The war is over and we have wounded here to be looked after.”

Kallan nodded in reflection.

“I have a lot to do in Lorlenalin,” she said. “With Aaric dead and Gudrun—”

A stale knot clamped her throat and Kallan forced in a deep breath to push it along. Exhaling, she busied her hands, mindlessly unfolding a blanket for the sole purpose of refolding it again in hopes of staving off the waves of grief that often came.

“I’ve been absent for nearly two moons now,” Kallan said. “It will be a while before I can get back here. Maybe in the upcoming Jol after the snows and the first of the beers are brewed, I can—”

“Kallan.”

Kallan forced her head down, refusing to meet Rune’s eye, knowing he slid down from the window. In silence, he waited patiently for her to find her words as he leaned against the bed beside her.

Kallan sighed and gazed to the window behind him. The gray pillars of smoke filled the sky. For a moment, she contemplated asking him to come with her, and instead bit her lip for control.

“The Seidr,” she whispered. “Ever since I pulled you back…”

She shook her head.

“Something hasn’t felt right since.” Kallan sighed, wishing Rune would leave her alone, and wanting him to stay. “I can See. I understand Aaric sealed my Sight. I understand there were things he didn’t want me to See. That night when he grabbed my arm, he started to unlock what he sealed away years ago. But he didn’t finish.”

Rune listened quietly, recalling everything from two nights before and not daring to mention the woman they had seen with Gudrun’s head.

“There are things that are still dark,” Kallan said. “Things, still out of my reach. I felt something there at the core,” she said, “but when I extend my Sight to See, there is only darkness.”

Kallan exhaled.

“Gudrun often told me of a place buried deep within the earth where the Seidr dwells at its core.” The words came quickly now. “She explained that, if I were to follow the threads, I would find the Seidr there where it all begins.”

Kallan paused, giving Rune a moment to answer while she searched for the words to continue.

“I was there at the core, I am certain,” she said. “But something was wrong, very wrong, and I can’t find the words to call it by name.”

Kallan met Rune’s eyes.

“I can’t even bring myself to try,” she whispered and shook her head. “I don’t think I want to.”

* * *

Horses were saddled, provisions prepared, and the first of the Dokkalfar moved out to begin the three day trek back to Lorlenalin. The courtyard buzzed with excitement. The constant bustle of servants led by the sharp bite of Torunn’s orders accompanied her stern glare.

An unusual chill clung stubbornly to the air as the gray clouds moved from the west. The last streaks of sunlight poured into Gunir as Kallan stepped from the keep. Biting the corner of her lower lip, she studied the courtyard and felt her heart sink at Rune’s blatant absence.

Gathering her skirts, Kallan heaved a deep sigh and forced a smile as she descended the steps into the courtyard where Daggon led two saddled fjord horses from the stables. Bustling servants swarmed the captain as they fastened the last of Kallan’s bags to the saddles beside Torunn, who wasted no time welcoming Kallan into a tight hug as the cold bit their faces.

“You’ll check in with the children?” Kallan asked.

Torunn nodded.

“Every day,” she replied. “Geirolf said he wants to take a look at them and see about getting them a more permanent dwelling than the warrens.”

“I’ve left some of the apples with him,” Kallan said. “You received the clothes from Bergen?”

“I have the girls already working on them.”

Torunn grinned as Kallan leaned in, dropping her voice to a whisper.

“If that isn’t enough, raid Rune and Bergen’s wardrobes for more,” Kallan goaded.

At once, Torunn grabbed Kallan and held her tight.

“You will be missed, my dear,” Torunn said. “We’ll be watching the roads for your return.”

With tears that glistened in the sunlight, Torunn released Kallan and took her face in her hands.

“You’ve filled a void here that has long been needed,” Torunn said, smiling. “And it felt good putting those boys through their own paces for once.”

With a kiss to her forehead, Torunn released Kallan unto Geirolf, who warmly embraced the lady.

“Return soon,” he said, taking his time in releasing her.

Kallan replied with a single kiss to his warm cheek and turned, falling almost immediately into Roald’s open arm.

With a growl, he hugged her tight and lifted her from the ground.

Refusing to relinquish her to Bergen, he held her high, keeping her to himself until Bergen punched to Roald’s good shoulder.

“Come on, Stumpy!” Bergen said impatiently.

Ignoring the complaint, Roald held Kallan a moment longer before lowering her to the ground.

“You’ll be missed.” He smiled and left her to Bergen.

“Dearest lady,” Bergen greeted with a sad smile.

Kallan raised her gaze to the scar that decorated his right brow.

“Consider her a peace offering,” Bergen said.

Curious, Kallan tipped her head in question as Gunnar slunk into the courtyard leading the charcoal gray mare, saddled, bridled, and ready to ride.

“Oh.” Kallan clamped both hands to her mouth as the mare came to stand beside the pair of fjord horses.

“Her name is Zabbai,” Bergen said. “Named for a rare…rare lady, much like yourself. She’s been good to me,” Bergen said. “Be good to her.”

Tears burned Kallan’s eyes. Unable to hold back, Kallan jumped onto Bergen, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Thank you,” she whispered into his ear, and he tightened his grip on her.

Kallan released Bergen’s neck and slid back to the ground.

Eagerly, she approached the mare, allowing the horse to snuffle and sniff her hand. Slowly, Kallan pulled an apple from her pouch and extended it to the mare, who accepted it almost at once. After the horse lowered her guard, Kallan pulled herself into the saddle with Daggon’s help.

“I still owe you for this!” Bergen called, pointing to his scarred brow as Kallan steered the mare toward the gates.

“Challenge me!” Kallan dared over her shoulder.

With a glint in her golden eyes, she flicked a wrist with ease and ignited a white flame.

Bergen shook his head.

“You have no idea how happy I am that you are my ally!”

“Coward,” Kallan called back with a smile, then shifted to face the bailey ahead. Daggon mounted one of the two fjord horses and followed.

“Are you ready, Your Highness?” Daggon asked from atop his steed.

Quietly, Kallan gazed over the courtyard and scanned the many faces. Her hopes plummeted when she failed to see one in particular. Without a word, she nodded.

As Kallan rode through the streets, the Dokkalfar fell in line behind her, some on horseback but most on foot, as they followed her to the bridge of the Klarelfr. There, propped too casually against his horse, Rune leaned with the same bored look in his eye that Bergen often held.

“What are you doing?” Kallan asked as she came within range at the bridge.

“Do you really think you’re going without me?” he asked as he hoisted himself onto his horse and readied the reins. “Besides… I can’t trust you’ll stay out of trouble.”

“But Bergen,” Kallan said. “Gunir—”

“—will be fine while we work on negotiating the details of the alliance. I’ll not be gone forever. Just long enough to set things in order…until you can find time to slip away.”

“And Bergen consented to this?” Kallan asked.

Rune smirked.

“Bergen doesn’t know I’m gone yet,” Rune said, directing his horse across the bridge to the plains. “Geirolf knows and has instructions to tell Bergen of the arrangement tonight over a pipe and flagon of hop mead,” Rune called as he took the lead.

“My treat,” Daggon said with a grin.

The bridge was soon behind them as they crossed the barren battlefield and pillars of dead. Ahead, the forest of Swann Dalr lay and the main road that would take them south.

Releasing a sigh, Kallan gazed up at the sky. The first of the snows had begun to fall.

Flooded with a sudden sickness, she looked to the horizons beyond the west at the brewing storm ahead.

“It’s early,” Rune said about the premature cold. “The harvests have barely begun.”

“Too early,” Kallan observed, knowing there was much more to the falling snows than she could see.

With a final glance over her shoulder, she looked down the long line of Dokkalfar that marched from Gunir’s gates. From the plains, she gazed upon Gunir’s keep that rose from the hill and towered over the bailey with grandeur.

Before looking back to the road, Kallan’s eye lingered on the tower where Kovit still hung chained to the wall. Unease stirred her nerves. Reaching out with her Seidr, Kallan tried to See, and quickly scowled at the sheet of black that blocked her Sight. She still had a lot of work ahead of her.