She slept often, said nothing, and never cried. She was too numb to cry. Too frequently, she passed between sleep and awake. There were times she entered dreams she was awake for, and woke to nightmares she knew were real. Every time she woke, she lay, silently willing herself to sleep.
She wanted to sleep. She longed for it. Sleep was her sanctuary, an invisible hole where she could crawl into and vanish for stretches at a time. Only in sleep could Kallan avoid the beatings, the darkness, and Nordri’s tawdry stares.
When she was awake, she longed for sleep, and when she slept, she welcomed it, desiring nothing more than to curl back up to sleep so that she might return to the world of dreaming where the pain was non-existent. She rarely woke on her own.
Kallan rolled onto her back, taking note of every new bruise and break and the level of stiffness the old ones had developed. It took her awhile to realize the unidentified concoction of slop they’d doled out was an assortment of medicines and herbs combined with something, she could only assume, that was nutritious enough to keep her alive, along with something for the fever, something for infection, and something to keep her daft and her Seidr out of reach of her consciousness. It was the only explanation she could find as to why she wasn’t dead yet. It also allowed them to exercise little restraint in their beatings.
A fresh new assortment of rock and stone accompanied a new collection of cuts and bruises that covered her from head to heel. The dizziness was stronger than usual, and the orange blaze that had cast the images in an outline of black had returned.
She studied the ceiling. The majority of jagged stalactites hung overhead like countless knives at the ready if she dared attempt anything. Her throat was dry and she suddenly found herself wishing she had more of the slop-deemed-food to wet her lips.
Kallan sighed as she tried to sort through her disconnected and jumbled thoughts. Her movements were stiff and jerky. She rolled her head to the side and gazed at the bowl that always wafted with red and orange, but all that was there was a cold, damp sick that plunged down her throat at Nordri’s leering eyes.
The usual campfire and muffled chatter were gone. Fear gripped her around the throat, inside the chest, and twisted her belly, wriggling and writhing in worry. There are things done only when alone, and the hollow silence of the cave confirmed they were very much alone.
Slouching, and hungry, as still as a bird fixed on its kill, Nordri sat on a chair-sized boulder. Beatings she could take. This was something else. His eyes gawked with a silence that spoke much more than words.
In a single glimpse, Kallan saw his thoughts played out in detail. Her heart pounded in her chest as she forced her broken body to move, to obey. The floor sliced her back, but Kallan continued to move.
With a careless thud, Nordri dropped a foot and stood, holding the lever used to pry up her chains. He swaggered to the spike that secured her bonds and pried it up from the floor. It was not until then that Kallan realized exactly how much chain bound her.
Five paces of elding chain scraped the floor as Nordri bundled it affectionately into his hands, cradling it lovingly like a leash. With a wide grin, he crouched to the floor, holding his eyes even to hers. His breath reeked of a bitter, root brew known only to the Dvergar.
He was too close. Even in the poor light, she could see every crevice and dip of his face as smooth and white as wax.
“I’ve had Dvergar and Svartálfar,” he said with a grin. “Lots of Svartálfar. I’ve had my fair share of Man—their women are quite an unusual breed—even Ljosalfr once. But I’ve never had Dokkalfr.” He shrugged. “They remember too much. Can’t get close enough.”
He dropped his voice even lower.
“But to have Drui…” There was his sick smile again. “…now that is a rare privilege.”
Kallan didn’t dare move. Silent and still, she lay as if any movement would encourage him to leap. He raised a large, white hand and lightly grazed her face.
Her skin burned where he touched her and her stomach flipped as a cold crawled up her back like a giant spider, and Kallan shuddered. The motion was enough to ignite his excitement.
“Go on.” Nordri nodded. “Get!”
He opened his hands, released the weight that pulled the chains through his grip, and relinquished Kallan’s bonds.
She didn’t have to be told twice.
In a breath, Kallan was off, scrambling to stand and run on a swollen leg. The floor sliced the bottoms of her bare feet. Kallan stumbled, but scrambled, battling to keep her body moving.
The chain clawed the floor behind her, sending a deafening scream through the cave. Surely, someone would hear, someone was there, somewhere.
Nordri moved.
Quicker than a fox, he was on her, letting her run and standing a stride behind her as he watched her stumble. The race was ludicrous, no match at all. Still he let the wounded rabbit run. After a moment, he opened his voice and chatted in time to a ditty of his own making.
“Pretty ‘ole thing can have your tart,
But cruel as is, she’ll eat your heart.”
Kallan clambered through the dark, pulling the chain over the stones of the cave floor, desperate to find the door. The deafening clank of elding on stone ended when Nordri stomped the end of the chain and stopped Kallan short. She fell to the ground, splitting her elbow open and making it run hot with blood.
“Pretty ‘ole thing. She wants to run,
But cruel as is, you won’t be done.”
His sickening grin revealed his teeth in the dark as he took up the chain, pulling Kallan with it, reeling her in like a fish. Kallan grabbed her end of the chain and pulled back, but she was too weak, the drugs too deep.
“Pretty ‘ole thing you’ll want to bed,
But cruel as is, she’ll want you dead.”
Nordri yanked the chain. With nothing to brace her, she fell, face forward, tripping foot over stone, but he was ready for her.
Into his chest, she landed and, as if he had practiced a dozen times, Nordri shifted and slithered behind her. His massive arms wrapped around her waist and he held her, possessed her, crushing her into him, and he grinned, relishing the struggle.
A cruel, wretched heat, like that of a violent fever you know will take your life after the delirium hits, rolled off his body. As he chanted the next couplet, his hot breath burned her ear.
“Pretty ‘ole thing can hear my sighs,
But cruel as is, I’ll want her thighs.”
Kallan fought, digging her bloody fingers into his arm. Amused, he held up his hand in offering and, desperate, she sank her teeth into it. And when she tasted blood, she bit harder. When he chuckled, she bit deeper, and he groaned with pleasure.
“Pretty ‘ole thing could make you moan,
But cruel as is, she’ll make you groan.”
He licked the side of her neck as she bucked, holding her with the same vile grin still frozen on his face.
“Nordri.”
Ori’s voice cut through the cave, ending the limerick immediately. Like warm sap, Ori’s voice ignited a flicker of hope in Kallan, but she didn’t dare release her teeth from Nordri’s hand.
“Let her go.”
There was calm in the order, but it wasn’t without urgency or threat. Nordri grinned wider and began a new couplet.
“Easy leave her, love her, want her,
Sleazy lover, let her wander,” he chided.
“Nordri,” Ori said, but Nordri chuckled.
The taste of his blood had reached her nerve and Kallan released his hand. Too weak to spit the blood from her mouth, she hung limp in Nordri’s clutches.
“She has that look about her.” Nordri nodded slightly. “The same look they all get. They want it. I’ll hold her if you’d like a turn.” And as quick as that he began again.
“Calling, crying, cursing canter,
Screaming Scryer, can’t deflow—”
“Nordri!”
Ori’s voice boomed through the black cav
ern. He fell silent as if Ori’s voice had swallowed his song. Kallan heaved against Nordri, panting, desperate for breath. A tear slipped from her eye and fell down her nose to the tip.
“I see,” Nordri’s slimy voice hissed. Kallan could hear that wretched grin in his words, but it was fading. “You want her for yourself. Just yourself,” he yipped. “The king’s son always wants for himself!”
His grip tightened, refusing to give her up. Any tighter and he would crush her.
“The giants are about,” Ori said darkly, “and we’re a long way behind the others.”
Nordri froze, holding onto each word expectantly.
“There are worse things than sunlight and snow out here,” Ori continued in a heavy voice dripping with boredom. “If someone were to get lost…” He let the word echo. “Damn near impossible for anyone to go back for him.” Ori shrugged. “I’m just saying…Damn near impossible.”
And as quietly as he had appeared, Ori turned his back, and left Kallan to Nordri’s judgment, taking the light with him.
CHAPTER 38
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.
“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.
CHAPTER 39
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.
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