Fire and Lies

by Angela Chrysler

“They’ll hardly deny their own eyes if they see Kallan frying up Aaric with that Seidr of he—”

  “She will not go,” Rune said.

  All looked at Rune, who took the time to meet each of their astounded gazes.

  “I will not send her to her death,” he said. “I’ve invested too much of my time to ensure she lives and will not risk her life for a chance this will work.”

  No one argued.

  “Besides,” he continued with a lightened air, “I’ve been singed one too many times to just hand her over to Aaric. No. If I have my say, she’ll stay locked out of harm’s way until I can personally parade Aaric’s head on Gramm’s point, or guarantee he’ll step down to welcome her back.”

  Together, they nodded, keeping their silence.

  “More than ever, I need to know Aaric’s motives,” Rune said.

  “Motive?” Daggon asked, crinkling his scarred face.

  “If I was Aaric and sent a spy to check on the status of two traitors, and that spy never returned, I’d launch the largest attack I could at the one thing that threatens my throne,” Rune said.

  Geirolf guffawed.

  “You think he seeks to attack Gunir?” Torunn belted.

  “Are you mad?” Daggon’s voice rumbled the room.

  “What other choice does he have?” Rune’s voice rose above the chorus of objections. “You said yourself he blames Gunir for the death of your queen. What other choice does he have? To sit by while Kallan slips a message to Lorlenalin that she lives? He won’t run. He’s invested too much in this to run. Now either he moves as we speak to avenge his dead queen, or he moves as we speak to destroy the one thing that could expose him. His only option is to advance before he loses the troops that support him.”

  “If Aaric is behind this,” Daggon amended.

  “But supposing Aaric’s innocent?” Geirolf interjected. “We’ll be launching a war against a high marshal who believes we killed their queen.”

  “All the more reason to be the first to march,” Rune said. “Either Aaric is innocent and seeks vengeance for Kallan’s spilled blood, or Aaric is vulnerable and can’t afford to have Kallan seen by his troops. Either way, Aaric’s next move is to attack.”

  “But Gunir has lost too much,” Torunn pleaded as if Rune’s hypothesis was the backing of Aaric’s plan. “We don’t have the manpower to stave off an attack.”

  “That’s why I’ve sent for Roald and Thorold,” Rune said.

  “You’re pulling back our defenses?” Geirolf said, suddenly at attention. “When Forkbeard sits as a vulture on his throne waiting for our borders to diminish strength?”

  “His scouts are ever vigilant,” Torunn said. “He waits for the moment you pull back!”

  “I have no choice!”

  The room fell silent once more, forced to accept the situation for what it was.

  “My hands are bound,” Rune said. “And the only chance we have to ensure our existence is to reinforce the weakened fountainhead here at home. For if Gunir were to fall, the forts would have nothing left to defend!”

  “And if Forkbeard moves?” Geirolf asked, giving voice to the one thing that plagued every Ljosalfar’s mind. “What then?”

  Rune’s shoulders slumped in defeat as he exhaled, unable to answer for that possibility.

  “There is a way,” Gudrun said, speaking up from Daggon’s side.

  The Ljosalfar gazed at the Volva.

  “Surely there must be someone who believes Kallan lives as we did. There must be some who want to believe that Kallan lives. If we could get to one of them, just one to speak for us…”

  “Eilif,” Daggon said, earning a warm smile from Gudrun.

  “Eilif,” she confirmed.

  “He’s unprotected. Easy to get to,” Daggon said.

  “Always in the warrens with the children,” Gudrun said.

  “Unguarded and away from the palace courts.”

  “Who is Eilif?” Torunn asked.

  “Eilif,” Daggon said, smiling, “is Kallan’s nursery friend and personal scribe.”

  “They grew up playing together,” Gudrun explained.

  “And collecting orphans they dressed in my tunics…” Daggon said. “If anyone waits with bated breath for Kallan’s return, it’s Eilif.”

  “If you’re caught, what you suggest is a death sentence,” Rune said, knowing Gudrun knew this.

  “What we suggest is to save our queen,” Daggon said.

  “You are not under my commission,” Rune reminded them. “I do not order you to go.”

  “Your Majesty,” Daggon said, “we share a common enemy. Whatever aid we can lend is ours to give.”

  Rune lowered his head in thought as Daggon continued.

  “You lost a spy when you lost Borg. We no longer have a high marshal we can trust. Aaric proclaimed Kallan’s death and took her throne then exiled us.”

  Rune peered up at him.

  “What do you propose?” he asked.

  Daggon slowly exhaled and straightened his back.

  “I will ride to Lorlenalin and find Eilif. With his power in the courts, Eilif can get me in. I will face Aaric and declare that Kallan lives. I will make him hear that Gunir seeks peace. I will force him to know that Kallan breathes.”

  “Aaric has ordered your execution.” Rune stared him hard in the eye. “You know what you do.”

  “I have always, ever only served my queen to preserve her life and ensure her continued existence,” Daggon said. “And I will ride for that cause once more.”

  With a nod, Rune lowered his eyes, releasing Daggon from his gaze.

  “And what of you, Gudrun?”

  The old Volva inhaled deeply as she cocked her head higher with her own agenda.

  “She is my daughter’s daughter,” she said. “My blood flows through her. I will ride to Lorlenalin and rip Aaric’s heart through his nose should he deny my kin the throne that is hers.”

  Rune pursed his lips, nodding in acknowledgement as he entertained the image she provided.

  “See the horse master for mounts,” Rune said. “Gunnar will have your horses saddled and ready to ride within the hour.”

  The Dokkalfr and the Seidkona glowed with renewed energy as they turned and bounded out the door. He waited for them to pull the door closed between them before releasing a sigh and whispered aloud his hope.

  “May Odinn keep you.”

  * * *

  The midday sun blazed over Lorlenalin, which glistened like a white opal in the light. The day went on as much it had for several weeks now. The Dokkalfar went about with their lives as undistrurbed as they had been restless.

  Within the palace, Aaric pushed open the doors of the war room, paying no mind to the young scribe scribbling fiercely onto a scroll he dearly cradled. The vast hearth fire roared behind the table littered with maps, letters, and seals. The iron wheel suspended from the ceiling illuminated the room, providing an unwanted cheery mood to the room.

  “Eilif,” Aaric said, addressing the scribe who hadn’t looked up from his writings.

  “Marshal,” Eilif said as Aaric approached the table. “I have here the final numbers as you requested, which should be ready…almost.”

  “I’ve ordered the men ready,” Aaric said.

  “The men?” The scribe stopped writing and turned to Aaric, whose wide shoulders dwarfed Eilif’s wiry frame.

  “We’re going to battle,” Aaric said and searched the table for parchment and pen.

  “Battle?” Eilif asked.

  “Kallan is dead,” Aaric said. “We are without monarch, and I’ll not sit here waiting for Gunir to move first. Once you have the final numbers, I’ll have you draw up the order for me to sign and seal.”

  Eilif stared blankly at Aaric, unmoving.

  “Well, get on with it,” Aaric said, shuffling papers about on the desk.

  “Who is Kallan?”

  Aaric snapped to attention and searched Eilif’s empty eyes.

  Kal
lan was barely older than Eilif, who was slow to mature and had always been too small for his age. He ate less than the orphans he and Kallan cared for. Eilif, who grew alongside Kallan. Eilif, who collected Lorlenalin’s orphans and loved them as their own. Eilif, who forever walked a step behind their queen… All of that seemed to hold no shadow in Eilif’s eyes as if all he was, all he knew, had been forgotten.

  “Don’t you remember your lady, Eilif?” Aaric muttered, but the scribe only looked on appearing more confused than ever.

  Fand.

  Aaric curled his hands into fists.

  But why? he pondered. Why would Fand wipe his memory?

  “Please finish things up in your chambers, Eilif,” Aaric said.

  Nodding, Eilif clutched the scroll to his chest and shuffled out the door, which he closed with a soft click.

  Aaric sank into the chair with his back to the fire, and dropped his face into his hands.

  His anger was waning and with it, his strength. There, alone beneath his grief, the high marshal broke. Tears streaked his faced lined with the ancient runes few could read. His wide shoulders shook, and the marshal cried silently.

  After all this time…

  Aaric dug at the heat in his eyes, putting an end to his tears.

  After all this time… Think, Aaric willed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he recalled the last moment he had seen King Rune and Kallan.

  “Take her,” Aaric had said to the Ljosalfr King within the stables. “She lives. She’s fine. But you must get her out of here.”

  “Why—” King Rune had asked.

  “There is no time. Take her horse,” Aaric had said. “The brown destrier. He rides faster than the others.”

  “B—”

  “I’m giving her to you now go or you’ll both be dead!” Aaric had said, knowing Fand was near.

  “She’s Seidkona,” Rune had argued. “When she wakes, I won’t be able to hold her.”

  Aaric opened his eyes wide and released his nose.

  Rune has the Fendinn.

  With a flicker of hope, Aaric ceased his grieving.

  The Shadow within Rune will have blocked Kallan’s Seidr, even from my view. Rune may have kept her alive after all.

  The more Aaric thought, the more he was certain. Kallan was alive.

  That Shadow, not even Danann knows, Aaric mused. Only the Drui knew about the Shadow…and Fand. But Gudrun and Fand believe it destroyed. And Volundr…

  Aaric shook his head.

  Volundr doesn’t care for anything anymore, not since Kira’s death.

  “There is still a chance…”

  Aaric walked to the window and gazed out at the waters of the Kattegat. Within a few hours, the sun would be setting beyond the waters.

  With Fand believing Kallan dead, it will buy me time enough to act. Under the guise of vengeance, the Dokkalfar could move on Gunir. If Kallan is alive, I will find her and get us out, all before Fand learns that Kallan lives. A simple spell can make it look like I died in battle, and Fand will end her search for Danann’s Drui. If Kallan lives, we will leave Alfheim. We’ll go into hiding. No one, not even Gudrun—

  Aaric’s face paled with a new fear.

  Gudrun.

  If Daggon and Gudrun find her, if they bring back news of Kallan’s survival, the hunt would resume and this time, Danann or no, Fand would kill Kallan herself.

  Rune peered down from his window into the black of night. Gunir slept soundly, leaving behind the light breeze and whistling winds. For hours he stood, staring at the night clearly ornamented with the cold light of the stars bristling around the last slice of moon that seemed to cling to the sky with all its hope.

  He pushed a deep sigh through him and allowed his thoughts to wander to Kallan in her bower. He looked out over the rooftops that filled the bailey and stopped, tightening his brow. A lone, cloaked figure slipped through the courtyard. From this window, he identified Kallan’s dainty swagger and, a moment later, was out the door, flying down the back steps to the Grand Hall.

  Rune arrived in the courtyard just as the hem of Kallan’s cloak vanished through the battlement. In silence, he slipped behind her, taking great care to keep his distance while keeping her in sight from where he followed in the shadows. Kallan entered the main road of the city and walked for a ways, before turning down a shallow street. With the stealth of a mercenary, Rune slipped in and out of the darkness, always several steps behind in time to see Kallan take the next turn or alley.

  The streets were growing narrower and the buildings more dilapidated with every rounded corner Kallan made. She stopped frequently to cast a precarious gaze over her shoulder before proceeding deeper into the darkness until Rune was certain they had entered the poorest district of the city. There, weathered doors had all but fallen apart and rodents frequently crossed his path.

  It was then, once Rune was certain the condition of the streets were as bad as they could get, that Kallan stopped abruptly. She didn’t move or turn or lower her hood, but remained in an open street where barrels and wooden crates had been dumped along with unwanted rags, piles of rotting fish heads, and heaps of mildewing hay from the stables. Bits of leather too worn for reuse or mending had been abandoned among the collection of garbage.

  Rune crouched behind the side of a building, eagerly watching. The night was quiet and the stones of the street glistened in the vanishing moonlight. Rune stretched his neck out from behind the building, anticipating Kallan’s next direction, when she spun and fired a blast of blue.

  As Rune flattened his back against the stone, her Seidr flame struck the corner of the wall where Rune’s hand had been moments ago.

  “It’s me!” Rune cried from the darkness, hoping it would deter her attack.

  Silence.

  Slowly, Rune peered around the corner. Kallan was gone.

  He dragged his eyes over barrels, hay, and rusted scaffolding and almost pulled his head back around when the tip of a dagger pinched his neck. Rune gulped.

  Guided by the blade of the dagger and the will of its wielder, Rune ever so carefully turned back around until he pressed his back flat against the wall and gazed at Kallan. The lapis blue of her eyes held the moon’s light. With a stern stare, she assessed him quietly then smirked.

  “Following me again?” she asked, with a snip of a playful tone on the edge of her voice.

  “Oh, come off it,” Rune said, carefully pushing the blade from his throat.

  With a muted chuckle, Kallan sheathed her blade.

  “There was a time when I could put a blade to your throat and you would actually respect its weilder. I miss those times,” Kallan mused.

  “What are you doing out here?” Rune asked, but Kallan had fixed her attention to a single rooftop directly behind Rune.

  Creasing his brow, Rune looked in time to catch the faintest glimpse of a small hand, long, black hair caked with filth, and a dirtier face cast in shadow with his back to the moonlight.

  “Come on down then,” Kallan invited warmly. “I have food.”

  The boy didn’t have to be told twice. He scaled down from the rooftop, through the scaffolding and dilapidated ruins of the house so quickly that, had Rune blinked, he would have lost sight of the lad completely.

  Crouched over so far that he could have run on all fours, the boy slithered along the edge of the street and was at Kallan’s heels before she had lowered the basket she had hidden quite nicely under her cloak. Another five waifs appeared and joined the one buried in Kallan’s basket.

  Granting them the space to forage, Rune and Kallan backed away and allowed the children full access as they rummaged through the fruits and breads. They wasted no time devouring the pastries Kallan had swiped from the kitchens.

  Stunned, Rune looked to Kallan, who stood grinning down at the children as they ate.

  “How did you find them?” Rune asked by the time another two had joined the group.

  “It isn’t hard,” Kallan said, delighted at the
growing crowd plowing through the perishables. “Once they get wind of food, word spreads. Kaj,” Kallan called and the first lad with matted black hair poked his head up from the basket, a loaf clutched in each hand with his cheeks bursting with bread.

  Crouched to the ground, Kallan pulled an apple from her pouch and began slicing it into pieces. His eyes widened in wonder as he gazed upon the Seidr that spilled like juice over Kallan’s hands.

  “Let me have a look at you,” she said.

  Eyeing the apple, Kaj obeyed. He swallowed the mouthful, probably too soon, and stuffed one of the breads into his mouth, freeing a hand for the apple. As he harbored his treasures, eating quickly to keep them, Kallan took a closer look at the lacerations and bruises that composed his body.

  “How did you know they were here?” Rune asked as Kallan placed a hand atop Kaj’s head. Without objection, the boy began on the apple and Kallan went to work.

  “They had to be,” she said. “I know how many of your men I’ve killed. I know how many of them must have had children.”

  Beneath the street dirt, the purple of Kaj’s bruises faded yellow then vanished. Within his body, what old fractures and breaks he had mended as the life in his eyes filled in.

  “How did you know they wouldn’t run from you?” Rune asked as Kaj finished the last of his apple and returned to the bread.

  “Some did,” Kallan said then smiled back at the boy. “Go. Eat.” Still clutching his bread, Kaj ran back to the basket.

  “Vibeke,” Kallan called and held out another apple.

  The dulled, hazel eyes of a girl barely six winters old peered over the heads that still rummaged through the basket.

  With a gleam in her eye, Kallan smiled and wiggled her finger encouraging Vibeke to approach. At the sight of the apple, Vibeke’s eyes glowed and, forgetting the basket, she charged Kallan, who surrendered the apple and scooped up the tot in a series of fluid movements.

  By the time Kallan turned to answer Rune, the child had eagerly sunk her teeth into the apple with a crisp crunch that snapped the air.

  “But… Why are you here?” Rune asked as Kallan bounced Vibeke on her hip. “Why would y—”