Dolor and Shadow

by Angela Chrysler

“Coward,” she muttered and averted her thoughts to the numerous dead, disposed for his convenience, at the foot of the keep.

  Kicking a chair across the floor, Kallan strode from the room as it smashed into pieces against the wall.

  “Father,” Kallan called as she plodded down the stairs, filling the keep with echoes.

  Her ever-rising anxiety did nothing to quell her nerves.

  “Father,” she cried and bit her lip in angst. “F—”

  Kallan gasped.

  With a trembling hand bathed in blackish red, Kallan’s father, King Eyolf, clutched the side of the keep. Drained of color, his skin was a waxy, yellowing hue. His cold, empty eyes reflected his waning life as the king battled to stabilize his breath through a mouth blackened with blood.

  “F—Father?”

  The great Dokkalfr shook as he released the door and fell into his daughter’s arms. Taking her sanity with her, Kallan sank to the ground, doing her best to hold him off the cold earth.

  Liquid pulsed from his stomach, filling the air with the stench of pungent metal.

  “Father?” The word scraped her throat.

  Desperate to keep him alive, Kallan fumbled with the pouch at her waist. With a shaking hand, she dug mindlessly among the contents, thinking only of the soft round treasure that could save him. Dread clouded her senses as her trembling fingers found the single gold apple.

  Pulling it from her pouch, she held it to her father’s bloody lips and, at once, her mind went blank.

  She did not know the incantation.

  Words and spells flooded her mind, providing no aid while she held the precious fruit to her father. Hope diminished with every spell Kallan discarded, her desperation rising until her mind was frozen, devoured by a dark void.

  Kallan could not feel his heavy body resting in her arms. She could not smell the metallic stench of blood. She could not think.

  “K—Kallan.” Eyolf’s white lips trembled as he spoke her name. His body convulsed as he fought to stay beside her, desperate to speak the words that would not come.

  Kallan held the apple, her eyes widened in horror, confounded at his idleness, waiting and believing that a single bite would be enough to stay Death’s hand if only she could remember the right words.

  The sun’s light warmed her, but Kallan felt nothing. There she sat, until King Eyolf’s breath left him. Still she held him, offering the apple smeared with blood and willing herself to mutter the words she had never learned, the words that could no longer save him.

  Kallan did not see the vast clouds move in from the sea in the south as they flooded the skies with a gray chill that consumed all of Alfheim. She did not feel the strands of hair sting her face like tiny whips thrashed relentlessly by winds that raced through the plains carrying the crisp scent of unfallen Nordic rain. She did not hear Daggon’s distorted cries, or feel the earth shake from the pounding hooves of the war-men.

  Kallan, daughter of Eyolf, felt nothing. Not when Daggon’s large arm wrapped around her waist and lifted her from her father’s side. Not when he sat her down in front of him, nor when her limp fingers released the golden apple that fell to the blood-soaked earth and came to rest beside her father’s body.

  * * *

  “It was just an inspection.”

  “Dozens swarmed them from nowhere.”

  “No notice. No warning.”

  “She didn’t see who did it?”

  “She had gone into the keep.”

  “Stabbed from the back.”

  “Found her holding him.”

  Kallan couldn’t identify the voices. Countless hands led her to her room then bathed and dressed her. She could not see that Daggon guided her to the courtyard before the Dokkalfar. She could not feel the weight of the silver circlet on her brow or the wind as she stood on the shores, watching her father’s body set ablaze in a ship sent to sea. She did not hear when Gudrun called upon the gods to guide Eyolf to Odinn’s halls. Kallan, daughter of Eyolf, Queen of the Dokkalfar, stood cold, empty, and oblivious to the weight of the signet ring bearing down on her finger.

  The room was dark, save for the moonlight that stretched across the stone floor of Kallan’s chambers. Still dressed in ceremonial gowns of white and silver, with faceted blue gems, Kallan stared across her room and out her window, to the north and Gunir. Her blackened wall of ice was complete, allowing her to think again without having to feel anything beyond the heavy numbness pulling down on her body.

  She took a step. Her shoulders were stiff, her feet like weights. She could still feel her father’s kiss on her brow from that morning. An invisible blade impaled her and twisted its way into her chest. Kallan closed her eyes and amassed her pain, her hurt, her grief. With it, she built a vast, black wall around memories that would be the death of her. Higher, thicker, colder, she secured the wall until she was numb and hate alone remained on the outside.

  Bury the memory. Bury it all.

  She pulled in a deep breath, filling her mind with simpler thoughts, safe thoughts, and forced the slew of memories behind the wall where, one by one, time would erase them. Opening her eyes, Kallan took a second step toward the window.

  Numbed to the grief she refused to feel, she was free to think again, and replayed recent events.

  The reports are always consistent. Rune always reports to the Southern Keep…on every moon. Father—

  Her insides screamed and tightened. Her eyes burned as she gulped down a hot ball in her throat. Her hand curled into a fist as she crammed the memories deeper beneath the wall.

  “All of them,” she breathed and stifled a sob. “Everything.”

  She forgot her father’s goodnight kiss. She forgot his morning hug. She forgot the gleam in his eye that followed her every question. She forgot the warmth of his voice, until the blade in her chest had dulled and the agony eased.

  Kallan opened her eyes and took another step toward the window.

  After every inspection, Rune meets the Dark One at Swann Dalr in the Alfheim wood.

  She absorbed the cold that numbed her grief and slowed her pain to a silent standstill. Kallan built her wall higher.

  That is where we’ll strike, she decided as her thoughts finally flowed free of pain.

  A chill webbed through Kallan’s spine, but she did not shudder. Her iridescent eyes sparkled as she raised them to the moon’s light and knew exactly how to proceed.

  A cold, dark smile spread across Kallan’s face.

  With the pieces aligned, the plan was perfect, and, this time, King Rune would die.

  CHAPTER 12

  The acidic venom collected at the tip of the snake’s fang and then splattered onto Loptr’s brow. The poison seared his flesh, and he howled with a rage that shook the rocks that bound him.

  The pain subsided and Loptr inhaled sharply, releasing his breath. The snake tied to the stone above his head hissed. Another drop was already forming on the serpent’s tooth, promising another wave of agony.

  Loptr shifted his body on the rock bed and winced. Fresh cuts sliced his back and split the old ones. Struggling to lift his head, Loptr searched the black rocks and boulders that made up his earthly prison.

  The sudden sound of splintering wood pulled his attention to the large, winged worm that raised his black, stone-like eyes to him. Its jaw moved with lethal precision. Blinking curiously, the worm studied the giant chained to the stones and then returned to his meal of Yggdrasill root. Its large talons clung to the wood that protruded from the mountain’s side.

  Loptr pulled his attention from the black worm to the pile of discarded clay bowls. Sigyn was not back yet. She would be back. She always came back. Nevertheless, the venom dripped and Loptr’s hatred grew ever more for Odinn.

  The giant gazed at his bonds. Odinn’s words still echoed in his mind.

  “Special bonds,” Odinn had called them. “Unbreakable.” He had given Loptr that contemptible grin. “Made by the Dvergar.”

  “And with elding, no doub
t,” Loptr grumbled aloud while inspecting the silver sheen that glistened on the black metal.

  The worm munched his meal with disinterest.

  Loptr had spent the first of several months fighting the bonds that held him. The enchanted metal showed no signs of wear. If anything, it appeared to be stronger, thicker.

  “I had them forged just for you with what little remained of your sons,” Odinn had said.

  Raw hate twisted Loptr’s insides with the flood of memories that invaded his senses. He remembered the random adventures spent in Odinn’s company, when they would end the day exchanging women, story, and mead.

  Another drop fell from the snake’s fang and Loptr howled, shaking against the pain.

  Sigyn would be back soon.

  “Sigyn,” he whispered. She has suffered so much already. Odinn had killed their sons. Loptr would be sure to return the favor.

  The giant pulled on the chains again, still seething with rage. Another drop of venom fell and Loptr bellowed, trembling against the pain. Again, the pain subsided and only the shadow remained while he lay stretched on the stone, panting. His black hair covered his face like long, menacing fingers. Loptr opened his vivid, green eyes and gazed at the snake hanging above him.

  He would find a way to escape and he would see to it that Odinn suffered as much as his beautiful Sigyn.

  Yes. Odinn would suffer.

  CHAPTER 13

  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.