Fire and Lies

by Angela Chrysler

  “Aaric,” Fand said softly. Pain shattered the pounding in his head as Aaric released what little was left of Borg, who lay too beaten to hear the cell door close behind his captors.

  * * *

  “Aaric!” Fand called.

  “Leave me!”

  “Aaric!” She followed on his heel.

  “You have no place here!”

  “But I do.”

  Aaric spun, throwing Fand into the wall where he pinned her against the stone with a hand on her neck. The other, he raised, cradling a ball of white Seidr flame.

  “You have your way, Fae witch,” Aaric growled. “My queen is dead. Now get out.”

  “Hardly,” Fand said, smiling. Aaric tightened his grip on Fand’s neck, forcing her smile to fall.

  “Kill me, Aaric,” Fand forced through her breaking throat. “And Danann will find you. Kallan may be dead, but Danann still hunts you. You need me to hide you.”

  Aaric tightened his hold.

  “What will you have to say for yourself? Hm? When the goddess finds her Drui?”

  The white flame doubled in size and Aaric positioned his arm to fire.

  “Wherever you are, Gudrun isn’t far behind.”

  The fire vanished and Aaric released Fand, who fell to the floor coughing.

  “Get out,” he said, unconcerned with the traitor, the witch, or the Fae, and left the dungeon.

  * * *

  Fand remained on the floor, rubbing her throat where Aaric had nearly snapped her neck. As the last of his footsteps died away, Fand smiled and lowered her hand. Free of pain, she rose to her feet and hummed herself a ditty as she walked back to Borg’s cell.

  “Sing and skin o’er Fairy mound.

  Over the hills and through the dalr.”

  She turned the handle and pushed open the door. Stull humming, she all but pranced down the steps and approached the still breathing bloody mass on the floor.

  Tsking, she peered down at Borg.

  “You’re a fool,” she said. The pile of blood and bones gasped. “I should let you die here, uskit.”

  The breathing had reduced to a wheezing that confirmed his neck was fractured and he possibly had a punctured lung.

  “Once more,” Fand said, placing a hand to Borg. “Ride to Gunir and finish the job.”

  Bones popped back into place. Skin reknitted itself and mended as the golden threads of Seidr flowded through the corpse and repaired the damage done by Aaric’s hate.

  “Y-you’re letting me go?” The words scraped free of Borg’s throat before Fand had finished mending his wounds.

  “The queen is dead. Only part of your deal is complete. You still have a message to deliver to Gunir.”

  “But the marshal—”

  “Is useless,” Fand finished for him. “His hold on this city is slipping. The people don’t even remember the name of their queen.” She watched the Dokkalfr relax as she finished. Disgusted, she watched the sluggish soldier rise to his feet then and regain his composure. With a nod, he trudged toward the door with barely a limp. His head hung low with incompetence.

  “And, Dokkalfr,” Fand called.

  Borg raised his eyes to the goddess.

  “This time, don’t get caught.”

  Borg pursed his lips as if tasting the bitter bite of failure. With a subtle nod, he trudged out the door and left Fand alone in the cell.

  Kallan woke to an ongoing ache that permeated her body from the base of her neck to the ends of her feet. She arched her back, winced at the stiffness in her spine, and looked to the window. The moon was high. The night was far from over.

  Throwing back the furs, Kallan shuffled about, reclaiming her boots and gown, before donning Ori’s leather overcoat.

  Blod Tonn.

  Kallan exhaled an uneasy breath. She would have to leave now while she still could— without her dagger—or never.

  “I’ll come back for it later,” she muttered, deciding it was sufficient reason to come back and kill Rune.

  Within a handful of breaths, she opened the chamber door.

  Windows spanned the empty corridor and cast strips of blue moonlight onto the wooden floorboards. Kallan looked to her right where a pair of double oak doors ended the hall. Closing the door behind her, she crept into the hallway and tiptoed toward the staircase and a small wooden door she could only assume led to the west tower.

  With every step down, Kallan held her breath and took care to keep her steps light as the high ceiling threatened to amplify the most minute sound. Tiptoeing through the hall past the cold fire pits beneath the wrought iron chandeliers, she made her way to the massive oaken doors and slowly pushed one open just enough for her to slip through to the courtyard. The doors creaked and whined, forcing her heart to stop twice as it announced her departure from Rune’s keep.

  The cool air enclosed Kallan as she stepped into the empty courtyard. She didn’t bother closing the door behind her, lest she again risk the merciless whine of the door. Kallan looked left to the stables, then right to the barracks. She descended the stone steps with a mastered stealth and made her way to the stables where Gunnar had led the horses.

  Once she rounded the corner, Kallan exhaled and relaxed her shoulders. As she entered the stables, the sweet scent of hay engulfed her. With every movement, each pensive stare, the horses exuded a wisdom, a warmth: elegant, refined, majestic, but simple, nevertheless. Their presence evoked a wave of affectionate memories that made her long for Lorlenalin.

  The moon’s light poured through the open stables, painting a myriad of blue and shadow across the richly carved stall doors and roof supports. One by one, she passed the rows of cream colored fjord horses, pausing for a brief moment to admire the rare magnificence of the black courser mare. Two stalls later, in the far back, she found her beloved stallion housed beside the Lofot pony, Freyja.

  With a smile, Kallan slid into Astrid’s stall and slid her hand over his deep, russet coat. Gunnar had thoroughly brushed Astrid. A half-eaten bucket of oats hung within the stallion’s reach and a pile of clean hay lay on the floor beside a trough filled with fresh water. Kallan smiled. As promised, the horse master had provided Astrid with the utmost care.

  “Come along, dear friend,” she whispered, reaching for the pristine leather bridle hanging on a peg just as an orange light poured into the stall.

  With a gasp, Kallan turned to the cold black of Bergen’s eyes—forever dilated, forever consuming the white of his eyes.

  Dressed only in trousers and heavy black boots, the Dark One’s wide frame blocked her path as his lantern swung on the end of a chain he held at eye level.

  “Did you really think we’d leave Astrid unguarded?” His voice was free of hatred. “Rune’s already been down to feed him,” Bergen said with a kind nod indicating Astrid. “He brushed him and had him fitted with new crescents.”

  Kallan silently eyed the elding hilt of the great sword peering over his left shoulder. She followed Bergen’s long, black hair down to his waist where she paused at a sword strapped to his side. He boasted a dagger sheathed at his belt. A second dagger was sheathed in his boot.

  Kallan cautiously assessed his idle hand as she waited for him to move or draw.

  “Rune called him Astrid,” Bergen said, his voice free of aggression.

  Kallan said nothing as she stared.

  “Why the girl’s name?” he asked, paying no mind to her cold disposition.

  She didn’t answer.

  “You don’t like me, do you?” he asked after standing for a moment in silence.

  “Should I?” she asked, wrinkling her face in disgust.

  “No.” Bergen shook his head. “You shouldn’t.”

  “You tried to kill me,” she said.

  Bergen shrugged. “I was doing my king a favor.”

  “You attacked my people. You infiltrated my city.”

  “You took my brother.” A cold permeated his gaze, making his eyes all that more menacing. “My only brother.”r />
  Kallan stiffened against the sudden chill in the air.

  “Do you have a brother?” he asked.

  Kallan didn’t answer.

  “A sister?” Bergen guessed.

  “What do you want?” Kallan asked, cutting his idle chat short.

  Bergen exhaled.

  “Rune and I don’t see eye to eye on your presence here in Gunir,” he said, hanging the lantern off a crooked nail. “A prisoner shouldn’t be housed in my mother’s bower…” He absent-mindedly dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword. “And a guest wouldn’t be looking to leave without a display of gratitude in the middle of the night.” He hooked a thumb on his belt. “Which makes it hard to think you’re here as a guest… Yet, here you are.”

  The lantern swayed, casting streaks of orange that ebbed and flowed like waves on their faces.

  “You could have called the guards at any time,” Kallan said. “Instead you stand there, talking.” She measured him up as she spoke and grew irate at a brief flood of sudden carnal urges. “What stayed your hand?”

  Bergen shrugged again. “Curiosity.”

  Kallan narrowed her eyes. “Curiosity?”

  “And my brother’s affection for you.”

  “Affection!”

  Bergen peered at Kallan. “You don’t know,” Bergen said.

  “Know what?” she asked. “His arrogance? His inability to accept refusal? Or his riddles and nuances that move me to want to break his neck?”

  “Yeah.” Bergen nodded. “That’s Rune.”

  “Affections!” Kallan scoffed. “You speak of his masculine drive if anything.”

  Callousness blanketed Bergen’s face.

  “Do you really think he followed you into the bowels of Midgard for a romp he could have here in Gunir?”

  Kallan forced indifference to mask a sudden wave of jealousy for any trollop he may have had in Gunir.

  “You said you were curious,” she said. “Why curious?”

  “I wanted to know what woman finally got to him and what about your disposition has my brother so inclined to keep you alive.”

  Kallan scoffed.

  “I mean you look good enough. I get that. But you have him vexed.”

  Kallan opened her mouth to screech, but the look from Bergen commanded her tongue be still.

  “I’ve fought you too often, Seidkona. I know you’re standing here as armed as I.” He gave a tap to his brow as a reminder. “My hand was not the only one stayed tonight. Why was yours?”

  Kallan’s throat tightened as a single face, buried beneath a grizzled beard, surfaced. Too many nightmares filled her with dread. With all bitterness forgotten, Kallan straightened her back. She felt her throat go dry.

  “You have something that I want,” Kallan said. “And I need you alive to get it.”

  Taken aback, Bergen raised his brow. A smirk turned up his mouth. He looked down the rows of horses until he spotted an empty stall and beamed. He gave a subtle flex of the hand at his pants.

  “Well, this isn’t my usual place…” His voice was low as he lavishly admired her form. “But I’ve got an empty stall here and some time to spare.”

  Horror-stricken, Kallan turned white then a vivid pink before a frown accompanied a shade of crimson.

  “Yeah, like that,” Bergen said, approving of her flushed skin.

  Kallan curled her hands, but Bergen couldn’t hold back. He belted a laugh that shook the walls of the stables, and he stumbled, nearly falling over in the process. And Kallan stood, enduring his ridicule.

  “Are you really the Dark One?” Kallan asked. “The Dreaded? The Feared?” She prattled through Bergen’s titles as Beregn wiped the tears from his eyes.

  “The berserker who snapped a fleet in two then climbed the mountains of Khwopring? The Dark One who travelled into the Ice Deserts of the Far North with nothing more than the boots on his feet and a sword?”

  Bergen shook his head as if amused by the tales Kallan recalled.

  “The same berserker who burned the library of Râ-Kedet? Whose wooing won the bed of the Desert Queen?”

  Her words wiped the humor from Bergen’s composure as a darkness settled in his eyes.

  “And what does the Dark One have that the Seidkona—the great Queen of the White Opal—could ever want?” he mocked with a bitter sting in his voice.

  Kallan battled back the anger that his jeering aroused.

  “An answer.” She forced her voice to be steady and calm as she pushed all hatred aside. Encompassing her goal, she allowed her desperation to show and embraced her humility.

  Her humbled tone was not lost on Bergen, who forced his venom aside.

  “An answer,” Bergen said as if trying to see beyond her display. “To what?”

  Kallan forced her breath steady.

  “The night you seized Lorlenalin… There was a man—”

  “There were many men, Dokkalfr,” Bergen said. “Which one?”

  She recalled Daggon’s face consumed by flames from her nightmares, and the sharp amber eyes peering back as he lay dead in her arms.

  “This one had red hair and a beard like wild fire,” she said.

  Bergen’s eyes were colder than the Nordic Winters.

  “Ah,” he said with a smirk. “The bear of a man lying with Death in the corridor.” He paused for a moment, waiting for her to break, knowing the question before she asked it. “Your question, then.”

  “Does he live?”

  Her voice was steady and her eyes frozen with the courage she mustered to speak.

  Bergen narrowed his eyes into menacing slits.

  “Is this why you kicked and screamed to get home? For your love for that beast?”

  Kallan forced her back rigid and waited for the answer, not daring to breathe.

  “That you would drop so low as to plead to the dreaded Dark One for the answer? That you would endure a dose of humility for the smallest clue on whether or not your precious sentinel lives?” Bergen scoffed as Kallan blinked back burning tears.

  She tightened her jaw, not daring to think of the answer he would give. Unyielding, she waited, prepared to stand all night for the answer.

  “That’s a Hel of a haul to carry through Midgard, Seidkona,” Bergen said.

  Unmoving, Kallan waited for the word that would relieve her fears.

  Bergen studied her composure, waiting for her to break. He almost smiled kindly in admiration, but Kallan stood steadfast, hanging all her hopes on him.

  “Yes, my lady,” he finally spoke. A gentleness rolled with his words. “He was alive when I ordered my men from your city.”

  As if she hadn’t taken a single breath since that night, Kallan gasped. She shook with relief, and a set of tears streamed her cheeks.

  “Why?” she asked between breaths. “Why did you come, if not to slaughter my people?”

  “I was there for my brother.” Bergen took up the lantern. “Nothing else.”

  The great sword glistened black in the moonlight as Bergen turned to take his leave. He was nearly halfway down the corridor before she found her voice again.

  “Bergen?”

  His name on her lips forced him to stop and slowly, he looked back, too curious to ignore her plea.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  The two words carried through the stables. As if donned in stone, Bergen stared back, indifferent to the niceties.

  “We have pieces to pick up here, too,” he said. “Stick around long enough and you’ll see that.”

  His lamplight faded into the darkness as he left her alone with Astrid.

  Kallan affectionately pat Astrid’s neck one last time before slinking out the stables, back across the courtyard to the stone steps to the Great Hall. She ignored the grand stairs that led to the second floor and, instead, considered the Great Hall without the discomfort of peering strangers.

  A vast fire pit filled the center of the room between two long tables that ran alongside the bedded coals emitting a mute
d heat. Above the tables, a pair of wrought iron wheels hung, each adorned with no less than eighteen candles. On a raised platform overlooking the hall, Gunir’s throne sat intricately carved from a rich, dark wood and lined with fine foreign fabrics. She admired the high seat pillars and spared a moment to compare the intricate designs of wolf heads to the twisted bodies of dragons carved into the high seat pillars of Lorlenalin.

  To the right, almost hidden behind the screens passage, a pair of doors beckoned her. The door on her right opened to an ascending staircase that climbed up behind the screens passage to the second floor. But it was the second door at the bottom of a small set of stairs descending into the floor that won her interest. She could only guess that door led to the servant’s quarters and the kitchens.

  Resisting the urge to don a spell and explore Gunir’s keep more thoroughly, Kallan inhaled deeply in an attempt to refresh her nerve, and descended the steps.

  Aside from their sheer size, nothing else about the kitchens seemed unusual. Three large, clean fireplaces waited for the early morning rush that always began at dawn when servants would pour in. Tables pushed to the room’s center housed sacks of flour, knives, and fruits. And a wide assortment of herbs hung from the crossbeams overhead. Despite finding the kitchen’s larder, the buttery, and the pantry all locked, Kallan managed to locate a loaf of day-old bread on the tables. As she munched, she scrutinized the Ljosalfar’s stonework, the many barrels shoved to the corners, and a door that opened to a lush vegetable garden.

  A sudden, small mew averted her attention to the floor, where a dainty, black cat pranced happily toward her. Its long, silk fur rippled in the streaks of moonlight as it purred.

  Smiling, Kallan crouched to the feline who gave another mew that demanded attention. With a quick scratch to its head, the cat arched its back into her hand with a healthy purr that encouraged a second scratch. Kallan had barely run her hand down the cat’s back when it suddenly hissed at the door and vanished behind a corner of barrels in a flash of fur.

  Curious, Kallan rose to her feet and stared at the steps. She balled her fists, waiting for the threat that warranted her Seidr, but nothing moved from beyond the door. The silence from the Hall carried through to the kitchens. A horse’s sharp whinny like a scream broke that silence and Kallan lunged. Before her foot touched the first step, the sharp, dry stink of smoke burned Kallan’s nose and she sprinted up the steps. The scent was dangerously stronger as she ran across the Great Hall to the oak door left ajar. Into the courtyard, Kallan fled and stopped, stunned. From the stables, black smoke rolled into the sky.