Fire and Lies

by Angela Chrysler

  Once more, a blackened cloud appeared and blocked all images from Gudrun. She heard the distant scream then silence as a girl took her last breath, and nothing more. Worry crumpled Gudrun’s face and she shook her head, failing to clear the fog.

  “I can not see, what seeds are sown,” she susurrated and Rune’s shoulders fell.

  “I would know no more.”

  Slowly, he found his feet and turned to the door.

  “It is you,” Gudrun said. Rune paused, his hand already on the handle. “You who sent the soldier to ask about Kallan’s children.”

  Rune shuffled around and gazed upon the old woman.

  “Why?” Gudrun asked.

  There was a long while before Rune answered as he pondered the Volva’s reliance.

  “I have only…ever…wanted to end this war,” Rune said, “and I can’t do that without Kallan.”

  He had barely moved again for the door, when she spoke again.

  “There is the matter of my payment,” Gudrun said.

  A new shadow filled her eyes as if pleading with him to hear.

  “Ask it,” Rune said.

  “Don’t let Kallan go back.” Her voice wavered with a weakness Rune had thought incapable of her. “Not while Aaric is there.” Gudrun shook her head. “Not alone.”

  With a slight nod, Rune slipped from the cell. Before the door closed behind him, the lights recollected themselves and returned to the ball of Seidr that hovered before Gudrun.

  Kallan watched the sun set beyond the river from the outermost ends of Gunir in the farthest backstreets of the warrens. There, looking down from a low hanging rooftop, she found what she had been looking for. Streets of abandoned buildings and dilapidated shacks left to the hungry and homeless.

  From a distance, Kallan watched as the starved and lost children tucked themselves into whatever crevices they could find, with whatever garbage they could muster for blankets. Most had settled down for the night. Only a handful of them still cried. The chill in the air bit cold and Kallan hugged herself tighter.

  I will wait until the crying stops.

  Daylight drained from the earth and another two hours slipped by. Rune’s warriors ended their search. The spell would wear off soon and, any minute now, Astrid would re-appear in his stall.

  The cries of the children faded in exchange for night’s silence and Kallan forced herself to her feet.

  I can always come back, she decided. I have to come back.

  With a long sigh, she brushed the filth from her clothes. Carefully, she climbed down from the roof, securing her grip with her Seidr.

  With a breath of relief, Kallan’s feet touched the ground and she scanned the warrens. After selecting the quietest road through the thatch and mortar homes, Kallan twisted her way through the village, past the occasional Ljosalfr, up the wide steps to the battlement, and across the courtyard to the keep.

  Cold laughter filled the Great Hall, where nearly one hundred of Rune’s warriors dined at the tables. The fire pit roared, and they laughed, exchanging drinks for stories as Kallan slipped by them unseen. After making note of Rune’s absence among his men, she made her way up the steps to the second floor and sprinted down the hall to her bower. The distant buzz of the rabble below vanished as Kallan pushed the door closed behind her. Falling back against the door, she gasped.

  Her chambers glowed with the warmth of lit candles and the roaring hearth. In the bedroom, a warm bath had been drawn and scented with oils of heather, rose, and lavender. A clean set of finely embroidered night garments covered the foot of the bed and trays laden with fresh meats, sugared fruits, and black currant mead buried the tables. A breeze blew in from the solar, taking with it the sweet scent of sage.

  Digging the heel of her hand into her eyes, Kallan recovered her senses and immediately began unlacing her bodice and stripping off her clothes. She soaked for as long as it took to absorb the oils into her skin and scrub the filth from her feet.

  Afterwards, still damp with oils and bath water, Kallan slipped into the chemise that fell to the floor, and pulled the matching dressing gown on over her shoulders. Leaving her hair free to hang in the breeze, Kallan brushed the short bits from her eyes and hungrily looked over the tray lavished with fruits and salted meats. She had almost started to enjoy herself, when the gentle click of her door interrupted her evening.

  With one hand upright and a pear clamped in her teeth, Kallan cradled a ball of orange flame.

  “Be still,” Torunn said. From the bedroom door, she waited for Kallan to lower her defenses. Despite the uneasiness in her eyes, the old key keeper forced a grin.

  Once Kallan realized Torunn wasn’t Rune, a slight poke of disappointment stabbed at her chest. With a flick of her wrist and a poorly suppressed eye roll, Kallan extinguished the flame and pulled the fruit from her mouth.

  “No one knows you’re back yet,” Torunn whispered. She dared a few steps forward.

  “You were expecting me,” Kallan said.

  “Of course.” Torunn smiled and came to stand before Kallan. “Who do you think prepared your room?”

  Kallan stared wide-eyed at the gentle face, unsure what to say as the Ljosalfr intrdocued herself.

  “I am Torunn, the castle’s keeper,” Torunn said, inviting the Dokkalfr to speak.

  Kallan gave a single nod, keeping her eyes fastened to the Ljosalfr.

  “What do you want?” Kallan asked, hardening her face at the sudden pleasantries.

  Torunn folded her hands and dropped them to her front as she peered at Kallan with the same look Kallan had seen from Rune so many times.

  “I am here to offer reconciliation.” Torunn attempted to soften her voice, avoiding an accusatory lilt in her tone.

  Kallan shook her head with a bit of a chuckle.

  “Forgive my suspicion,” she said, “but I’ve seen too little from the Ljosalfar that suggests you want to reconcile.”

  Dropping the pear on the table, Kallan pretended to look through the tray of food.

  “Please…” Collecting the folds of her skirts, Torunn followed Kallan along the rows of trays. “I understand your apprehension…your hesitation.” Kallan raised her face to the dark outside her window above the tables of food. “I’ve watched you stand against Bergen and Rune surrounded by a people who despise you.”

  “For two days you’ve said nothing to me,” Kallan said, staring up at the almost half-moon. “Why the sudden change?”

  “For Rune,” the woman said. “For Bergen.”

  Kallan frowned. “Common enemy, common ground?”

  Torunn shrugged then smiled kindly despite Kallan’s ill temper.

  “In a way.”

  Kallan shook her head.

  “You can’t help me,” she said and, hugging herself, sauntered into the sitting room.

  The sweet lake air snapped and whipped the fire’s flames. Kallan inhaled deeply, coming to stand in the room’s center where a fine, thick fur rug swallowed her toes.

  “I know these boys,” Torunn said, “every secret, every nuance, every quirk. I know the way they think, the way they hate. The way they love… I know what they drink and whom they fight. I know which bed they sleep in every night. I know what bedfellows they keep.”

  With one question suddenly at the front of her mind, Kallan turned about, but the twinkle in Torunn’s eye stopped her from asking who frequently shared Rune’s bed with him.

  “You can’t tell me none of this information can be of use to you,” Torunn asked.

  Gentle curiosity narrowed Kallan’s eyes.

  “Why do you tell me this?”

  Torunn smiled.

  “I’m too wise to hold my tongue when I shouldn’t.”

  Kallan mulled Torunn’s proposition around for a moment.

  “Even if you could help,” Kallan asked, “why would you?”

  With a hearty chuckle that encouraged Kallan to absorb the full humor of the situation, Torunn smiled broadly, multiplying the intricate l
ines at her eyes.

  “In the time I have served this family, those boys have given me an eternity of woes. I am all too eager to pay them back for the years of affliction they have bestowed unto me. Besides…” Smiling, Torunn shrugged. “They deserve it.”

  Sighing, Kallan shook her head and returned to her bedroom. Exasperated, she settled herself into a chair before the small hearth fire, letting her arms hang off the side of the chair.

  “And how could I—”

  “Lady Kallan,” Torunn said, dropping to her knees beside the Dokkalfr. “Your Majesty.”

  Kallan gazed at Torunn, shocked at the formal recognition.

  “In the short time that you’ve been here in Gunir, I’ve seen you rumple Bergen’s pride—which, in itself, is a great feat. I’ve seen Rune run more laps trying to keep up with you and get the runaround he’s been needing for a long…long time.”

  Kallan stared at the fire.

  “I don’t know what transpired since Swann Dalr,” Torunn said, “or how the two of you ended up in Midgard gallivanting around with the kings of Men and the Dvergar, but whatever it was—whatever it is—it has worked. Everyone is here at the end of this thing. And we are all very, very tired.”

  Flames licked the air with a liveliness that seemed to infiltrate Kallan’s nerve. She tried to remember the last time she played at a game like this.

  It was Daggon, she recalled, thinking back. He had needed to retaliate against one of Father’s jokes that entailed a cauldron of deer blood, the whole of the army, and his horse.

  A small smile tugged at the corner of Kallan’s mouth.

  “What’s the plan?”

  Bergen closed the door of Rune’s chambers behind him, not bothering to soften the heavy clump of his boot as he walked.

  “Rune,” he called through the dark, void of the usual joviality that accompanied him. “Are you still staring at the ceiling?” he asked, coming to stop at the foot of the bed, where Rune had stretched out onto his stomach.

  “Hm.”

  A wad of folded vellum notes rested beside Rune’s hand, allowing Bergen to read the scribbled line:

  Bound by ancient birth… Silver sea… Aesir sing

  The vellum was folded where Bergen couldn’t read the next line and then:

  …lost…crown King. Lost King…Gold crown.

  And again…

  …void devours night. K…

  Bergen relaxed his hand onto his hilt and grinned.

  “Oh, you’ve got it bad if you’re writing prose,” he mumbled where Rune couldn’t hear. “Brother! Rune!”

  Bergen added a thump to Rune’s foot buried beneath the furs.

  “Your lady is back!”

  Rune’s back stiffened, for barely a moment, then relaxed and Bergen thought he heard a sigh into the pillow.

  “Where was she?” Rune said, muffled by the pillow.

  “We don’t know,” Bergen said. “Gunnar was finishing up with the last feeding when Astrid suddenly was there. So we checked the bower and…” Bergen let his voice trail off rather than reiterate the obvious.

  He waited a moment for his brother to make a move before pressing the issue further.

  “Are you going to go to her?”

  “No,” Rune said into his pillow.

  Bergen flinched, taken aback by his decision.

  “No bickering, no barrage, no battle?”

  “No, Bergen.”

  “Well, Hel.”

  The heavy clump of his boot confirmed Bergen had moved toward the sitting room and Rune lifted his head.

  “Bergen.” The clump of the boot stopped. “Leave her.”

  Bergen scowled at the mass on the bed, immobile and unnerved by everything around him.

  “Well, one of us should get into it with her and it may as well be me,” he said and closed the sitting room door behind him.

  It took Bergen a moment to release the door handle, as he fought to convince himself not to go back in and punch Rune in the face.

  “Well?” Torunn’s hushed exclamation jolted him from his irked state.

  “Nothing,” he answered, releasing the handle.

  “Damn!” Torunn snapped, already thinking hard on the next plan of action.

  “Don’t worry about it too much tonight, Torunn,” Bergen said. “I’m sure your wild head will think up something nasty by dawn. Get some sleep.”

  He made it as far as Kallan’s room when Bergen called down the hall to Torunn, who nervously gnawed at her thumbnail.

  “Goodnight, Torunn.”

  * * *

  Kallan stared at herself in the glass, happy enough with the gown of warm russet she wore. She normally would don a pair of trousers and a tunic for a day like this, but under the circumstances, she felt it would add a sharper sting to her bite.

  She ran a flat palm down her stomach then spun on her heel, gently closing the door of her bower behind her, the Seidr pouch of amadou rested idly on her bedside table.

  If you want Bergen’s respect, challenge him and win fast or lose hard.

  She played Torunn’s words back as she passed through the corridor, carefully reviewing each word.

  Fight them and win. He adores the woman, but respects the blade and nothing throws him into more turmoil than combining the two. He can’t pass up a good mead, a good fight, or a good woman.

  Kallan swept through the Great Hall, ignoring the occasional pair of eyes that glowered as she entered the courtyard.

  Rune is stubborn and speaks little, keeping his head in most cases where Bergen loses it. He observes while he keeps to himself, careful never to leave an opening. His solitude makes up for Bergen’s unruliness, but don’t underestimate Bergen’s unruliness. It’s a front he uses to throw off your guard.

  Kallan’s eyes strayed to the gathering of bare-chested men who planed the logs for the new stable.

  If you want Rune’s attention, hit him hard. Get in his face where he can’t get away. He moves fast and, if you let him, he’ll keep ten paces ahead of you. If you’re not watching, you will lose him.

  And Geirolf? Kallan had asked.

  Geirolf goes where I go, every time. Let me handle Geirolf.

  Kallan slowed her pace as the clang of sparring grew louder from the courtyard. The door had been propped open, allowing the cool breeze to pass through. Forcing her breath steady, Kallan paused in the threshold and thoroughly examined the situation.

  Nearly two dozen men had gathered around the barracks, giving large-shouldered Ottar and Bergen the space required to spar with each other. She watched them quietly as Bergen lunged forward, bringing his sword down onto Ottar, who blocked his attack. Sweeping the blade up, Bergen cut through the air to his left where Ottar barely blocked it and pushed Bergen back.

  Regaining his balance, Bergen advanced, bringing his sword to the right toward Ottar’s leg. He blocked the sweep as Bergen snapped his elbow with lightning speed into Ottar’s face, breaking his nose in the process.

  Ottar stumbled, blinded by the taste of his own blood, but Bergen had no pity. He raised his sword and thrust, stopping directly at Ottar’s throat, where he held the point of his blade.

  At once, the barracks erupted into applause. Onlookers exchanged bets while Bergen gave a congratulatory slap to Ottar, who beamed from beneath the red mass on his face. The rumble granted Kallan the time she needed to glide to a table pushed against the wall, which was adorned with a generous collection of swords, daggers, and shields.

  With a curious eye, Joren peered from his place against that wall. He leaned with ankles and arms crossed and studied Kallan, intrigued as she scanned each artifact with a critical eye.

  “What are you up to?” Joren asked, keeping his voice below the rabble’s expletives. With a hardened cold in her eye, Kallan glanced up at one particular sword that held her attention.

  Bergen’s voice boomed through the barracks with ease as he spun about, eager for the next victim. “Anyone here dare best me?”

 
In reply, Kallan took the black hilt in her hand and balanced it easily on two outstretched fingers, her approval won by its craft.

  The display caught Bergen’s eye and a smug smile stretched his face.

  “If it’s a long, thick blade the lady wishes, she shouldn’t be looking on the table.”

  Fire flickered to life in Kallan’s eyes and she smirked as the barracks burst into uproarious laughter. With a flick of her wrist, she caught the blade and, with a flourish, extended it down to her side as she turned to face him.

  “I can best him!” Kallan dared, forcing Joren to squirm uncomfortably in his spot against the wall. Bergen bellowed loudest over the thunder of laughter that filled the barracks.

  “Not without that craft of yours, Seidkona,” Bergen barked between chuckles.

  “Without my craft,” Kallan agreed, coolly raising an eyebrow that reinforced her offer.

  The barracks grew silent. Bergen glared at the woman, weighing her offer as Ragnar leaned closer from his wall.

  “Kallan.”

  Kallan held her eye on her challenger.

  “You might want to rethink this,” Joren cautioned.

  “You’re next,” Kallan said, shifting her gaze to Joren. “How ‘bout it, Bergen?” Kallan belted, returning her attention to Bergen. “Will it be rumored that you were too afraid of being bested by a woman…” There was an outcry of ‘ooh’s. “Or will you be humiliated by losing against one?”

  Sweat balled in Bergen’s palms and he forced his breath steady, suddenly aware of how he ached to go head to head with her. He puffed his chest with a deep inhale that fueled the ferocity she stoked. All jocularity was gone as he stared down at the Seidkona from across the room.

  “If it’s a lesson you want, Seidkona,” Bergen said, “I will be more than happy to instruct.”

  The game was on as the bets were placed, drawing everyone’s attention to the fighting circle. Kallan smiled and glanced at the sword still clasped in hand. With a brandish, she confirmed the balance on her fingers then dropped it to snatch the hilt before it had fallen an inch.