“My elder mother,” Kallan clarified, nodding.
“Elder mother,” Rune repeated.
“It is she who gave me the pouch,” Kallan said. “She who taught me.”
Rune nodded. “Your father is dead, which rules him out.”
A distasteful sick stirred Kallan’s gut as Rune passed over the statement with indifference.
“What about Eilif, Daggon, and Aaric?” he asked.
“Eilif is my scribe,” Kallan said with a renewed twinge of malcontent. “We’ve been friends since we were children. Together we rounded up the orphans in the warrens.”
“And he’s just a scribe?”
Kallan shrugged.
“My bard,” she specified. “He maintains our libraries, our records, and our history. He can read and write and recite centuries worth of dissertations.”
“And Daggon?”
“Daggon is my captain, my keeper. My sentinel,” she said. “My father left me in his care before the Dokkalfar even came to Alfheim.”
“And Aaric?” Rune asked, concluding her list.
“My high marshal?” Kallan tightened her mouth.
Rune nodded. Kallan’s face was stern as Rune waited for her to begin.
“Aaric was dearest friend to my father long before we came to Alfheim. Father stationed him in Lorlenalin to build alliances with the Ljosalfar.”
Rune arched a brow, riling her further.
“Build alliances?” Rune asked.
Kallan nodded.
“And yet we are at war,” he said, with a tone that suggested she reconsider.
“Well, you didn’t exactly welcome us when we got here.”
Rune didn’t answer.
“Father trusted no other to that station,” Kallan snipped. “Aaric oversaw my education and still works to bring peace to Alfheim.”
Rune said nothing encouraging her anger.
“Aaric even argued in your favor,” she said, unable to hold back the rising bout of rage, “speaking highly of you while I ordered your execution. At one point, Father was going to appoint him captain.”
Rune ended his brooding.
“What happened?” he asked.
Kallan shrugged.
“Daggon was chosen instead.”
“Why?” Rune asked.
Kallan blinked, uncertain of the answer herself.
“And he holds no resentment?” Rune asked.
“Aaric has lived among the Dokkalfar for centuries,” Kallan said as if this cleared Aaric’s name and finalized her argument.
“You mean he wasn’t always one of you?” Rune asked.
“He was not born Dokkalfar, no,” she said cautiously. “But he is one of us.”
“You sent him to build friendships with my people and yet we are at war,” Rune said.
On the balls of her feet, Kallan turned with a huff. Her arms held stiff at her side, ended in balls of fists.
“Aaric has proven his loyalty beyond question,” she said.
“You have demons sleeping in the bowels of your city,” Rune said, his voice rising in urgency. “Someone is looking to usurp you, and until you find out who it is, everyone is suspect.”
With a scoff, Kallan gathered her skirts and stomped from the beach, forcing her head down as she made her way back to the Mead Hall.
“There are no ships, Kallan.”
The words slammed into her like a wave, taking her senses and draining her head of blood flow. Suddenly dizzy, she stopped and looked back to Rune and the sea. He waited until she made her way back to the beach where she had left him.
“Olaf took everything the Throendir had,” he said. “What he did leave them was a couple of feraeringr for fishing and the few ships out on route.”
Kallan swayed on her feet.
“How will we get home?” she breathed.
Her eyes stared frozen to the distance as if hearing nothing at all.
“We have to move east,” he said. “There’s a river, which will lead us south as far as Viken. From there we can make passage around the mountains, through Midgard, and take the road to Guni—Oh…”
Rune clamped his mouth shut too late as Kallan’s temper rebounded.
“I’ll not go to Gunir,” she said before Rune could cringe. “I promised the children. They need me. Gudrun and Eilif are alone. And Aaric—”
“You can argue the details once we’re in Alfheim!” Rune’s voice boomed over hers, forcing her to swallow her tongue as he spoke.
“I want to go home!”
The waves washed upon the shore as Kallan huffed, near tears. Rearing up for the battle, Rune raised his voice to match the sea.
“We have a raging king on our tails with an eye for your head. The Dvergar are adamant to have you and avenge their kin. We’re a fortnight away from home and the only company you have to look forward to until then…” Rune exhaled. “…is me!”
“What do you propose?” Kallan asked, glaring at her new comrade.
“Peace talks! Right now!”
Kallan scoffed, ignoring the rage that flared in Rune’s eyes. “All that matters is that we get to Alfheim at all. Once we are there, we can haggle, bicker, and bitch all you want over which city to go to, but for now, the only chance of survival we have is to stick together. Now you can come along quietly…” Rune huffed. “Or I can fashion up some rope before we leave.”
Kallan glanced to the orange light over the distant houses where the Mead Hall’s lights glowed. The muted laughter carried over the village, filling everyone with a merriment that matched their warmth.
“I’ll go with you,” she said at last, gazing back to Rune. “I’ll travel and hunt and follow the river to Viken.”
“That’s all I ask,” Rune said with a nod. “We leave at dawn. We can’t afford to sit still for too long, and while we’re on the road, try…try not to draw any attention to yourself.”
Still obviously seething, he turned leaving Kallan alone on the beach.
With the same spitfire she reserved for him, Kallan called to his back.
“But my blade will pierce your gut with the first foot fall that touches down on Alfheim!”
Rune flashed her grin. “I’m looking forward to it,” he said and marched back to the village.
CHAPTER 53
“Harald carved this stone after his father Gorm and his mother Thyra. Harald, who won for himself all of Dan’s Reach…”
Through the darkness, Svenn Forkbeard peered at the runes etched in stone. The fraction of moonlight permitted by the crescent was barely enough to read the lettering. Countless times, he had spent his youth reading the inscription carved there by his father. He had repeated the words until the sounds had burned themselves into his memory. Each time, his hatred grew.
This night, his eye held fixed to one part of the inscription.
“…Harald, who won for himself all of Dan’s Reach…”
The small, silver disc Forkbeard turned over in his hand passed through his fingers as he followed the lines of runes stamped into the coin. His eye lingered, caught on the words and, once more, he debated having the stone torn down altogether. The temple Blatonn had erected was easy enough to burn to the ground, but this…
A twinge of hesitation pulled at his chest as he re-read the names again.
Gorm and Thyra.
His gaze shifted to his left, and the great southern mound of Thyra’s grave. Those names alone were what saved it.
Forkbeard stared at his father’s stone again. Its size dwarfed Gorm’s stone, which was twice the grandeur. From this angle, it completely hid the second stone from view.
Another reason to tear it down, he thought.
“My king?”
Forkbeard looked up from the stone. Along the side of his Mead Hall, looking closer to thirty than he did to twenty, Vagn, son of Akes, stood.
Releasing a sigh, Forkbeard straightened his back as the young captain peered through the dark.
“Speak,” Forkbeard said
, annoyed at the disturbance.
“The Alfr is here.”
* * *
The darkened halls of the Mead Hall carried a lingering gloom that moved through the whole of the room where Queen Sigrid paced the floor. Forkbeard eyed her blue silk gown. It rustled as she moved, adding to the chill of the deep blacks of the Hall. Despite her wide, sturdy frame, there was a feminine delicacy about his wife’s composure. Her freckled complexion appeared almost untainted and misplaced by the black walls of the Hall.
Tonight, she had sleeked her blond hair into a braided bun that accented her high cheekbones, drawing his eye to the sleek curve of her slender neck. With her chin high and shoulders relaxed, she moved with an air of command, keeping her arms to her sides.
“You’re proposing we lay waste to Alfheim,” the queen spouted.
Forkbeard’s boot struck the floor following each step with a noticeable offset gimp that dragged his every left step. If the king’s arrival daunted their dark guest, he gave no indication.
“As of right now, the Ljosalfar have no king,” the Alfr said. “Gunir looks to Bergen Tryggveson, who sits restless on the throne. Gunir has lost great numbers. The city is weak and leaderless.”
“And without aid, you lack the power to move in and take Gunir for yourself,” Sigrid said. “But what guarantee can you give that Lorlenalin will side with us once battle is at hand?”
Svenn stifled a smile he hid well within his forked beard and said nothing as he climbed the steps to the throne, positioned between a set of high seat pillars.
“All Dokkalfar have felt the queen’s disappearance,” the Alfr said, impervious to the regality of Dan’s Reach’s queen. “Her people are shaken. Vulnerable, they are desperate for leadership. The city is on the brink of chaos. I assure you, the Dokkalfar will unite against Gunir. If you were to move now against the Ljosalfar, no one would stand in your way.”
Forkbeard pushed a fist to his mouth, the coin in his grip.
“There are others you could request for aid,” Sigrid said. “Why Dan’s Reach? Why not Englia, Lade, or the Rod Men of Gardaríki?”
The Alfr beamed, knowing their position.
“No other alliance has as much to gain.” His answer was as honest as it was simple.
While pondering her reply, Sigrid settled herself into her throne positioned beside the pillars.
“Gunir has long since battled against your stance,” the Alfr said. “Since Blatonn’s reign, the southern keep has held you at bay. Even now, though Danelaw spans all of Dan’s Reach and Northumbria, you can’t gain the position for Alfheim, which would give you a great advantage unmatched by any other location.”
“We’ve spent our rule content to leave the Alfar to their own…uninterested in the politics of ancient wars,” Sigrid said, tired of the Alfr’s evasion. “Above all, the Alfar know this. Yet, you came here confident we would accept your offer. What boon do you bring that would win our favor?”
The Alfr peered at the woman, knowing the weight his words would carry.
“Olaf has claimed the Northern Realms.”
Svenn looked at Sigrid in time to witness the blood drain from her face before she flushed red with hate.
“The sting of his hand still burns my cheek,” she said and the Alfr knew he had her. He continued, giving little pause for her to regain composure.
“He’s already laid claim to Throendalog and Opplandene. His troops now march to Viken and Vestfold. Nothing stands in his way from Lade to Agdir. He moves to take Aeslo where his hand will move freely into the Silver Road and the Eastern trades from Volga to the Khvalis Sea. A hold in Alfheim will gain you the advantage to move troops into Viken and everything west of the Raumelfr without resistance. From there, you could reclaim the North.”
Lowering his fist, Svenn spoke with a deep lull that boomed from his seat on the throne.
“Where is the queen?” Forkbeard asked. “Where is Kallan Eyolfdottir?”
The Alfr shifted his attention to the king, leaving Sigrid to brood.
“Arrangements have been made with Gunir’s king,” he assured Forkbeard. “Kallan Eyolfdottir, is dead.”
Svenn threw Sigrid an impassive glance, allowing a chance for her to speak. When she didn’t, he stared down at his guest.
“Return to the White Opal,” he said. “My scouts will follow. They will watch. And when Lorlenalin is ready, we will answer.”
With a silent bow, Borg turned from the feet of the monarchs and took his leave of the Dani’s king.
* * *
Kallan shifted and stretched her legs out along the flat planks of Olga’s longhouse. Movement amplified every ache, leaving her painfully stiff that morning. Instead of the usual bustle around the central fire pit, boiling over with the midday’s meal, the longhouse was empty.
Grateful for the absence of Olga’s kin buzzing about to wash and dress for the day, she forced her sore joints back into the gown of green and gold, wincing with every stretch. With her pouch secured to her waist, and her dagger sheathed at her side, Kallan fluffed her hair, preened before the glass, and stepped into the crisp, morning haze that had moved in from the Northern Sea.
She allowed a moment for her eyes to adjust and grimaced at the late hour of the day. A lone pile of cindered ash smoldered in the square where a single strip of smoke rose into the sky, mingling with the fog. Workers had all but abandoned their progress on Olaf’s house. Without a second glance, Kallan trudged along to the Mead Hall, concluding it to be the most reasonable place for a certain king to be.
Kallan’s mood was lighter by the time she entered the hall. Almost immediately, she located Rune at the same table where the inebriate and his comrades had indulged the night before.
He downed a morning mead next to Halvard and exchanged a chuckle, taking turns devouring strips of dried meat from the pile on the table between their tankards. She was pleased to see he too had secured a fresh change of clothes, boots, and, from the looks of it, a bath. A weathered, but well-made, leather belt firmly secured a quiver of arrows on one hip and Gramm on the other. He wore his hair loose, which blocked her gawking from his peripheral vision.
Pulling herself out of complacency, Kallan straightened her skirts, fluffed her hair, and proceeded to the table. Before either could voice their objection, she snatched up a strip of salted reindeer and settled herself down beside Rune.
Flashing a quick smile, Halvard downed the last of his mead and, dismissing himself, gave a firm pat to Rune’s shoulder. Day’s light engulfed his wide frame in the doorway before Kallan snatched up a second strip.
“I thought we were leaving at dawn?” Kallan asked, biting into the venison.
“You needed the sleep and we needed time to get the provisions together.” Rune watched from behind his tankard as he gulped down another helping and dropped the drink to the table.
“Where’s your bow?” she asked, eyeing his back a bit longer than she needed.
“Halvard is having a new string put on,” Rune said, shoving the end of a strip into his mouth. “The last one was looking threadbare.”
The mood of the Mead Hall was nothing as it had been the night before. With most benches empty and the fire in the center of the hall extinguished, a fresh air had settled over the room.
“Astrid will be saddled and ready as soon as you put something in your belly,” Rune said, shifting a glance to Kallan, who was delicately prying apart the individual strips like cheese curds.
“Halvard has gifted us with a second horse,” he said. “Olga and Emma are preparing salted and sugared foods that will keep well on the road and should last us a few days.”
Kallan finished the last of the strip and snatched up another.
“How many days before we meet the river?” Kallan asked, pulling this one apart as she had the first.
“Raumelfr,” Rune clarified.
“What?” she asked between coughs on a mouthful of meat.
“It’s the River Raumelfr.” He ga
ve her no time to recover. “If we keep the same pace, ten hour days of steady stride, in five days we should see Alfheim.”
Kallan gasped.
“Ten hours? Are you mad? A horse, on that pace will be dead in three!”
“You have your apples, don’t you?”
Kallan frowned and bit back her bottom lip.
“At Lake Aursund, the river starts,” Rune continued. “From there, she will lead us down into Heidmork, then Raumariki, and into Vingulmork, the first fylke of Viken. We’ll need to be sure to catch the east side of the river when leaving Aursund or we’ll have to cross the Raumelfr in Viken.”
Pausing to drink, he passed a discrete glance to Kallan, who seemed only engrossed with her meal.
“The frequent rivers and streams will keep our water and fish supply well stocked,” he said, giving her time to comment or question.
Kallan bit another helping in two while she eyed Rune over the venison.
“Halvard has invited us to look through the armory,” he said. “You should see if anything holds your appeal before we leave.”
“What happened to the swords you picked up?” Kallan asked before dropping a bit of meat between her teeth.
“I gave them to Halvard’s smith, who thinks he can re-forge the metal into something half decent.”
“It will weaken the metal,” Kallan said, speaking between a venison strip.
“They know that,” Rune said.
With a loud smack, Kallan finished off the strip and stood from the bench then snatched up Rune’s tankard. She drank his mead, and, with a wide grin, dropped the drink to the table. With a flourish, she made for the door.
In the sun, Kallan frowned at the strip of meat lodged between Rune’s teeth as he joined her and sorted the strips clutched in his fist.
“You’re the King of Gunir,” she reminded him with a tone that suggested this would improve his etiquette.
“I’m a man,” Rune professed through the chunk animal clamped between his teeth. He gave a hearty chomp and a swallow before continuing. “I like my meat. This way,” he said, looping his arm into hers and steering her to the right.
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