“Where are we going?” Kallan asked, cocking a brow at his jovial mood.
Pointing to the barracks ahead, Rune declared in a booming voice, “To the stars!”
With their arms still linked, Kallan furrowed her gaze as Rune walked her past the center square, around the barracks to the back where a smith plinked away on an anvil.
Polished weapons honed into fine precision, lined the walls of the armory. Bows splayed about covered every surface beside quivers of arrows and a wide variety of daggers. Eagerly, Kallan untwisted her arm from Rune’s and bolted for the nearest table strewn with doubled edged swords.
“I thought Olaf laid waste to this land?” Kallan asked while judging the spine of a particular blade.
She checked the balance before giving a few practice thrusts and down swings.
“I asked Halvard the same thing,” Rune said, shoving the last of the strips into his mouth. “Apparently, the land’s seclusion has won his favor. He plans to make Nidaros his base here in Midgard and wants to get into good standing with the Throendir.”
Kallan paid no mind as she poured all her focus into the blade, guiding each swing through to pull on her stiff joints.
“The villagers said he’s calling it Kaupangen,” he said, “and plans to station his own prestr or priast here at the house he’s having them build. They couldn’t remember what he called it.”
Kallan heaved, aligning her arm with the spine as she peered down the blade.
“And now he marches south to Aeslo?” she asked.
With a final swing up and around then down to the table, she returned the sword and switched it out for a second blade. Again, Kallan assessed the spine and balance before guiding the blade through the air with a fluidity she carried through to the next position.
“There’s rumor he’s looking to expand and join the Silk Road and the Volga Route in Aeslo,” Rune said.
He said nothing more for a moment, and she continued testing the blade until he spoke in a sudden rush.
“Why did you leave with Brand last night?”
Through the air, Kallan moved the sword, cutting the wind with her blade.
“I fail to see how the selection of my…companions….concerns you,” she answered.
“I asked why you left with him. Not why you slept with him,” Rune said. “And standing you up does not a companion make.”
Kallan raised the sword to thrust, and froze. Her stomach twisted with ire. After a silent glance, she returned to sparring and lunged as she stabbed the air with her blade.
“He did not stand me up,” she said. “You ran him off.”
“Saved him,” Rune corrected.
Returning to form, Kallan lowered the sword to the table and ran her fingers over a series of daggers, eyeing each for their balance.
“And what matters, if I did?” she asked.
Taking up a pair of matching blades, Kallan wielded the daggers through a series of turns, slashing at the empty air where she imagined Rune to be standing with his smug smirk smeared on his face.
“None,” Rune said as Kallan slashed the air and sparred with the imaginary Rune. “Unless your actions were conducted to provoke me.”
Kallan returned the weapons to the table and lifted a double-headed axe.
“Were they?” he asked.
She gave it a wide swing up and over her head, stopping mid-air as she carried it down before deciding to answer.
“Perhaps I was fond of the youth,” Kallan said, giving a second swing of the axe. “Stamina counts, you know.”
Rune heaved a single breath, but his composure remained.
“Perhaps you found a way to aggravate me,” Rune said.
“Did I?” With a wide swing overhead, Kallan brought the axe down toward Rune forcing him to unsheathe Gramm and meet her advance. He blocked her.
“And why would that aggravate you,” she said glaring from behind the axe.
This time, Rune cocked a brow.
“For the same reason my warming Emma’s bed last night would aggravate you.”
Flushing with anger, Kallan pushed against his blade with the axe.
“Did you?” she asked, seething.
Rune said with a grin, “Now who’s prying?”
Swinging the blade, Kallan lunged, forcing him to pivot.
Before she could recover from the weight of her missed swing, Rune pinned her and slammed her against the wall with his body.
“I’m beginning to think you’re angry,” he goaded, his grin never waning. “Has your jealousy finally clouded your judgment?”
Tightening her grip on the handle, Kallan pushed against him, and Rune released her, allowing her the space to swing at the air, her blade missing every time.
“Thoughts of me with Emma getting the better of you?” he asked, widening his grin.
With a shrill exclamation, Kallan took up the daggers from the table and threw the blades at Rune.
“Uskit!” Rune exclaimed and dove through the door, hitting the ground hard just as Kallan flicked both wrists, ignited her hands, and fired.
A pillar of fire roared, grazing Rune’s back as he lay with Kallan’s rage rolling over him.
The confidence was gone, replaced by a blanket of white that coated Rune’s face. Afraid to breathe, unable to move, he waited, motionless until the fire died and the smoking, charred door of the armory groaned as it swayed closed. The smith’s rhythmic plink carried on the wind without missing a beat.
“Don’t you have enough sense to not anger a Seidkona?” Halvard’s boisterous voice quelled a chuckle. Rune raised his face from the dirt.
With mead in one hand and bow slung over a shoulder, Halvard lifted Rune to his feet.
“Stubborn wench doesn’t know how to admit when something’s eating away at her,” he said as he slapped the dirt from his trousers.
“Let me give you some advice, lad,” Halvard said, still chuckling. “If it can throw fire at you, don’t make it angry.” The last bit of his words slurred into a chuckle that brought tears to the old man’s eyes.
Rune’s smile had recovered.
Studying the door, he watched as the last of the Seidr flame whispered out.
“Could be worse, I suppose.” His grinned widened. “She could be incessantly weepy.”
Snatching the flask from Halvard, Rune headed for the stables as he took a drink.
“Astrid and Freyja are saddled,” Halvard said. “Olga and Emma are stocking the horses now with the last bit of provisions.”
Rune nodded. “As soon as I’ve collected my wench, we’ll be off,” he said and downed another gulp.
“Your wench?”
Halvard grabbed Rune’s shoulder, stopping him where he stood and snatching back the mead. “So, you did plug her. Is that why she set fire to your arse?”
“Not yet,” Rune answered, grinning boldly, and the old man released another bout of laughter. “But if I don’t, somebody has to, or one of us won’t be making it to Gunir alive.”
And before Halvard could object, Rune grabbed the mead back from the Throendr and downed the last of it as he sauntered on into the stables.
Within the armory, Kallan heaved, gasping between breaths. Oblivious to the fire that rolled from her palms and the hot tears that fell down her face, Kallan stoked her temper as endless images filled her head of Rune and Emma.
CHAPTER 54
Nidaros buzzed with an air of excitement as Emma and Olga scurried with the last of the provisions. With unchecked enthusiasm, the women took turns stuffing an assortment of food and drink into the satchels. Lured by the enthusiasm of the Alfar, a small crowd had started to form and on-lookers extended their parting wishes to Rune wherever they found the chance in between Olga’s orders.
It was not long before Halvard joined him armed with three flasks of mead, two of which he crammed into the saddle of a short, cream horse deemed Freyja. With long, strands of the finest fur, Rune curiously ran his hand down the pony’s thick ne
ck.
“Freyja is from the north in Gasdalr,” Halvard said. “Brand arrived two winters ago with her on board.”
Rune intricately examined the strands of wavy, cream fur as soft and as thick as rabbit hide and twice as long as his arm in length.
“She isn’t much for riding,” Halvard said, heaving a roll of blankets onto her back, “but her wide girth can handle the mountain air during the coldest of winters, and her stout legs will ensure an easier climb through the forest in Heidmork.”
Halvard gave Freyja a final pat and unstopped his flask.
“Avoid the lake to the south of Aursund or you’ll find yourself trudging through days of bog.”
“Bog,” Rune said with a hint of concern.
“Aye.” Halvard tugged the leather strap. “Bogs. The kind that stretch for days on end. You’ll be forced to double back countless times before you manage to find the right path through.”
“Days,” Rune said, “in a bog…with Kallan.”
The thought alone made him shudder.
“Once you cross into Heidmork,” Halvard continued, “stay to the river. Always stay to the river. There’s a gorge there, that will cause you more headache than its worth with a pony, a horse, and a lady.”
With interests piqued, Rune shifted a brow.
“A gorge?”
Halvard nodded, pulling back the mead from his mouth.
“Aye, nearly two thousand paces from the river at one point. Don’t let the lady wander.” His eyes were cold and severe. “And keep a sharp eye for yourself if you veer from the river.”
Rune shook his head.
“The lady won’t like it,” he said.
Halvard stared at the ground in thought.
“The lady won’t.”
“I won’t like it,” Rune said, glancing to Halvard who grinned and threw back another mouthful of mead. “Speaking of the Venom Queen, where is she?”
The mead sloshed about in the flask as Halvard dropped it again and gulped.
“She was with the horses when I grabbed Freyja here.” Halvard patted the horse’s rump then added, “She might still be there.”
But Rune was already gone.
* * *
Kallan’s hand poked through the fur of Ori’s overcoat as she gave a vigorous rub down the neck of one of the fjord ponies. Happily munching away at Idunn’s apple, she planted a kiss on its head. Already, its coat glistened with the sheen of a newborn colt.
Once more, her thoughts strayed to Rune’s final words. Her stomach tightened with a hurt that clamped her chest and stung her nose. She dug a hand into her eyes, forcing away the fire that burned there.
“I was hoping you’d be here.”
Startled, Kallan jumped and heaved an audible sigh with relief at the sight of Brand, and not Rune, leaning over the stall gate.
“You’re getting ready to head out?” he asked, coming to stand beside her. The wide grin Brand frequently sported was gone, replaced with a somber smile.
“Yes,” she said with a single nod.
“Will you be back?” he asked with wide eyes.
She did not miss the hopeful tone rounding each word.
“No,” she said.
Brand’s shoulders dropped, pulling Kallan’s pity with him and she let it, happy to feel anything other than bitter rage for Rune.
Silently, Brand nodded and extended his hand to hers.
Within his outstretched palm, a pair of tiny discs stamped with a profiled face and crowned with a dome glistening with silver. Around the edges, foreign runes encircled the image. On the back, a cross divided the discs into quarters. Each had been dotted in the center. Runes on the back also lined the edges.
“What are these?” Kallan asked, turning the pieces over, intrigued by the foreign markings.
“Coins,” Brand said, his flashy smile somewhat revived, “from Eire’s Land, stamped by the finest horse trader in all of Dubh Linn. King Sigtrygg just started making them.”
“They’re beautiful,” she said, encouraging Brand to speak.
“We picked them off a monastery on our way through.”
Kallan looked up, suddenly aware of how very close he stood.
She dropped her voice to almost a whisper.
“Where are you headed to next?”
“Well…” Brand said. “…I’ll have to wait for the ship to come around for port, which will be around next moon.”
The horse shook its head, snapping the reins against the wooden beam, as Kallan looked the coins over, unaware that Rune lingered several stalls over.
“But after the snows, I’ll probably take to Eire’s Land again,” Brand said.
Kallan shook her head, still mesmerized by her new trinkets.
“I’ve never seen her land.” Kallan looked to Brand. “Eire’s Land. I’ve been to Northumbria, but Gudrun left no time in my schedule to make a trip to Eire’s Land.” Her eyes glistened with intrigue, urging him on, begging him to speak without saying a word.
“Eire’s Land is as beautiful and as green as the sea is blue,” Brand said. “Endless green. There’s something in the air in Eire’s Land as if the gods are still there breathing life into it.”
Kallan’s eyes glazed with wonder as her chest rose and fell with each breath.
“There are scholars there who produce pictures,” he said, “hundreds of pictures on vellum with the most intricate of art work, some made out of gold. They’d fetch a high price on the trade roads. If you can get to them, that is.”
The fine strands of rabbit fur grazed Kallan’s cheek. Her hair bunched up around the collar, spilling out and over the black fur, down to her waist where Brand’s eyes lingered.
“Kallan?” He stared at her lips. “Come with me.” The words came fast.
She grinned.
“Over your sea through the land of green to your world flowing over with wine?” Kallan said, remembering and allowing her words to carry her through to the ends of the earth.
“Where we’ll find the maps in the stars and sail home again,” he said, daring at last to brush her face with the back of his fingers, and she let him. Brand split his face with his wide grin, both oblivious to the Ljosalfr who slipped from the stables, unseen, unheard, unknown.
“Home,” she whispered, and remembered, her smile falling with her memories. “I must go home.”
Releasing his breath, Brand nodded and dropped his hand.
“I know.”
As if his accord was the cue she had been waiting for, Kallan swept past Brand, leaving him alone in the stall.
“Kallan.”
His voice pulled her back, as keen to hear his words as he was to speak them. “If ever you’re done being queen, and there’s ever a day when you’re looking for a somewhere…”
Kallan grinned.
“Come find me,” he bade.
Her eyes beamed.
“And where shall I look?” she asked, still grinning.
“To the sea.”
With a nod that shook her hair into her face, she turned, leaving the memory of her smile behind.
* * *
Rune’s insides twisted, igniting his rage with a maddening lack of sense. Thoughts of impaling Brand entertained his wrath for only a moment, before shifting his thoughts to Kallan. Too angry to growl, Rune marched back to Halvard still nursing the mead. With a second run of curses, he ripped the drink from Halvard’s hand.
“That bad?” Halvard asked as Rune threw back a gulp.
“Why would anything be bad?” Rune asked. “Can’t a man be thirsty without being prodded with questions?”
“Brand got to your wench, didn’t he?” Halvard asked.
“Not my wench. Never my wench.” Rune shoved the empty flask back to Halvard as he collected Astrid’s reins. “She’s the damn Dokkalfr who I wouldn’t touch with all the blessings from Freyr.”
Still grumbling, Rune hoisted himself into the saddle and froze when he spotted a black, leather overcoat swallowing
a certain Dokkalfr emerge from the stables. With a tug of the reins, Rune veered Astrid, giving him a gentle nick.
“What of the lass?” Halvard asked as Rune rode off.
“She’ll follow,” he said, picking up speed.
“Are you sure?” Halvard called from beside Freyja.
“Yep,” Rune said and encouraged Kallan’s horse into a light canter down the beach.
Along the banks of the river Nid, Rune grimaced beside Astrid as Kallan and Halvard joined him with Freyja.
Two weeks. Rune deepened the furrows on his brow. Two weeks enduring a sniveling, spoiled, palace brat.
Too sour to notice the off-hand quips and glowers from the Dokkalfr, Rune greeted Halvard, extending his thanks with a cold shoulder facing Kallan.
“That’s including the two you have packed,” Halvard said, passing a mead to Rune.
With another run through the directions, they exchanged their good wishes and bid farewell, then watched as the Throendr made his way back to Nidaros alone.
With a distinct squeak of the flask’s stopper, Kallan seemed to catch the darkness blanketing Rune’s face. Eyeing her with callousness, from her leather boots, to the piercing, cold iridescent blue of her eyes, Rune threw back his head and began the first of three flasks. Without a reprimand or word, he took up Astrid’s reins, and began the long trek home.
Rune gritted his teeth until he was certain they would crack. Kallan’s melancholy was no better, though he didn’t give much thought to what inspired hers.
By the time Rune polished off the last of the first flask, her blatant sneers had become vile glares that accompanied them down the River Nid.
* * *
The river differed from that of the harsh, barren region of the Dofrarfjell. Endless pines mingled with the reds and oranges of autumn that had settled in with the impertinent cold of the harvest.
After half a day’s walk, the lake of Selabu greeted them with an air of dread that added to their bitter temperaments. Steep slopes plunged the land into the lake, making the journey difficult, at best. For hours, they walked without rest, the ground fixed at a near permanent incline. Whenever the opportunity arose, they led the horses away from the persistent drop of the terrain.
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