Fire and Lies

by Angela Chrysler

  “Well, it isn’t there fault their king is an obstinate war-monger,” Kallan said and spotted a fresh cut, red and inflamed with infection, on an older boy who had pulled his head up from the basket.

  “Here,” Kallan said, dropping Vibeke into Rune’s arms. “Make yourself useful.”

  * * *

  Within the hour, Kallan had nearly finished sorting through the children, administering spells and herbs to each where needed and mending scrapes, lacerations, and broken bones before sending each off clutching an apple.

  “Sit still, Haas,” Kallan scolded gently as an eight year old squirmed in her hands.

  “It hurts,” he whined and Kallan narrowed her eyes to better see the depth of the cut behind his ear. Rune leaned closer over her shoulder, eager to get a better look at Kallan’s work.

  “How did you get this?” Kallan asked and wiped the wound clean with a bit of dry cloth.

  “I fell,” Haas answered, bored.

  Kallan released his ear and wetted the cloth with the juice of her apple then returned to the sight of the injury.

  “From where?” she asked.

  “From the roof of Thor’s Shadow,” he answered. As he spoke, Kallan siphoned a thread of Seidr into him.

  “What were you doing at the tavern?” she asked and Haas shrugged.

  “Looking for food.”

  “Well,” Kallan answered with worry, “don’t. I’ll be back tomorrow with more food.”

  She scrutinized her work and lowered him back to the ground. As soon as he snatched his apple from Kallan, he was off and made a comfortable seat out of a pile of soiled hay nearby.

  “Where did you learn to heal?” Rune asked as Haas began his apple.

  “Gudrun,” Kallan said. “Mandatory Seidr skills. Just the basics in the event you ever improve your aim.”

  Kallan flashed Rune a quick smile and picked up the basket before he could protest.

  “She wanted to be sure I would live,” Kallan said and watched as, one by one, the children returned to their homes in the shadow.

  “You underestimate my skills,” Rune said and a little hand pulled at his pant leg.

  Large, round eyes buried in a dirty face stared up at him. One of the orphans, no more than five, donned a glower she had learned from Kallan.

  “Are you Rune?” the child asked.

  “I am,” Rune said. And as swift as the whooper flies, she pulled back her leg and landed a kick in the middle of his shin.

  The child was off before Rune could howl.

  “What th—?” Rune said, holding his leg with a slew of curses at the ready, but Kallan had gone on ahead without him, leaving him alone in the street with his wound. Forced to use his freshly bruised shin to catch up, Rune limped after her.

  “What was that for?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Kallan said, gazing up at the sky and delighted for no apparent reason. “Maybe she doesn’t care for your politics.”

  With a glower, Rune shook off the piercing pain in his shin and hobbled alongside Kallan as they made their way back through the streets.

  The night was clear, permitting a full view of the moon. A cold wind rushed through the stone streets and Kallan pulled her cloak tighter.

  “Winter is on the horizon,” Rune said, staring into the distance. “You can smell the frost in the air.”

  “Hm.” Kallan grinned, breathing in the crisp scent of ice in the wind. “I love the winter. It’s like curling inside a wonderful warm blanket against the cold.”

  “And spring?” Rune asked, looking upon Kallan as they rounded another corner.

  Kallan inhaled deeply the night chill and grinned.

  “Spring feels like I’ve been wearing the same old blanket for six months and I finally get to throw it back and enjoy the fresh air.”

  The streets widened.

  “Why didn’t you give them your cloak?” Rune asked as Kallan pulled the wool closer.

  “Something like a cloak would launch a small war in a place like the warrens,” she explained as darkness descended upon her jolly mood. “The children would go as far as to kill for it.” Her voice fell barely above a whisper. “Eilif and I learned that the hard way.”

  They said nothing for several more alleys.

  “How did you find them?” Rune asked.

  “It isn’t hard,” she said. “Once they find food, blankets, and medicine, the information spreads like wild fire. You only need to find one really. The rest will find you.”

  “Have you always been welcomed in the warrens?” Rune asked, eager to keep her talking.

  Kallan shook her head.

  “Not at first.” They turned another corner. “When my father led us to Lorlenalin, there was little for me to do. The settlement was barely a fortress then. I would slip out with Eilif and we would run the streets while my father carved the city into the mountain. We found the children quite by accident, I assure you.”

  Rune’s sudden bought of laughter filled the sleeping alley, pulling Kallan’s eyes from the night moon.

  “What’s so funny?” she asked defensively.

  “You,” Rune answered, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Just imagining you as a child, running about.”

  Kallan crunched up her face.

  “Well, I was probably a fright better than you!”

  “Bergen and I both, mind you,” Rune corrected. “He took to the women right away…always the women with him.”

  “Your poor mother,” Kallan chuckled aloud, but her gentle amusement ended abruptly. “I lost my mother in the Dvergar Wars.”

  They walked side by side and Rune watched the hard realization sink in as Kallan said it.

  “I’m just like them,” she said. “Orphaned by war.”

  Ever vigilant, Rune prepared for Kallan’s tantrum, anger, and flames. But a compliant pensiveness came in its stead.

  “Only, I have Gudrun and Daggon and Aaric and Eilif.”

  The silence swelled comfortably between them as they walked, each submerged in their own thoughts as they nestled into the other’s company.

  “I suppose you were the same,” Kallan said after a moment. “Like Bergen. Always after the women.”

  “No,” Rune said. “Couldn’t be bothered. I was more interested in my studies.”

  “Ugh,” Kallan groaned, “Studies. Odinn! There were times I drove Gudrun batty with my lack of enthusiasm.” She proudly grinned. “I escaped every chance I could. I spent more time just trying to find a place where no one could find me when I was called for lessons. When I did, I could be guaranteed a full afternoon of peace and solitude. My favorite place was at the top of Livsvann overlooking the sea. No one ever found me there.”

  She lost herself in memories as Rune smiled fondly at his own.

  “There was a cave that had eroded back into itself,” Kallan continued. “Oh, but I haven’t been there in years. It was so high that I believed I could touch the moon if only I dared reach for it. I never did.”

  She stared at the sky, lost in thoughts.

  “I used to go there every night to wave at Hjuki and Bil. What about you?” she asked.

  “Me?”

  “Surely you must have gone somewhere to escape your nagging tutors and droning lessons.”

  “I didn’t.” Rune spoke profoundly as if setting an example. “I loved my schooling, my tutors, and my lessons. When Geirolf called, I gleefully abandoned my bow for a chance at more politics.”

  “You lie.”

  “I do,” Rune declared, holding his eye on the end of the street with his chest puffed out.

  Together they broke into a quiet chuckle before Rune finally answered.

  “Swann Dalr.”

  Kallan cocked her head grinning.

  “Swann Dalr? The valley?”

  “That’s where I would go. A long time ago, anyway.”

  A quiet dark drowned out Rune’s lightheartedness. The battlement came in sight as they neared the end of the bailey.
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  “There were places there where the foliage just flowed from the ground and formed a massive rug of greens and grass,” he said. “Trees as tall as your moon… I used to race Bergen to see who could reach the top first. And the view…” Rune blew an impressed breath. “There were these gorges that plummeted down as deep as your Livsvann was high, carved in the earth by a single trickle of water that had worn through it for centuries. There were places where Bergen and I would mark the level of erosion to see how much further the water carved out every fifty years or so. And, if you found just the right overhang, you could see right down the gorge to the lake.”

  Rune gave a bemused scoff at his childhood folly.

  “I was convinced that if I jumped, I could fly.” Sadly, he shook his head. “I haven’t been there in years.”

  “Why don’t you go back?”

  “Time.” He shrugged and pulled his eyes from the main steps to gaze upon the slender curve of her jaw. “Kallan. Speak to Borg.”

  Her foot froze on the first step. She stopped and turned her face down.

  “I have nothing to say to Borg,” she said, her voice suddenly dry.

  Rune shook his head. “You can’t ignore him forever.”

  “Why do you do this?” she breathed, hurt filling her eyes.

  “Do what?” he asked.

  “Ruin this,” Kallan chirped. “Why must you always ruin this?”

  Unsure of what she meant, Rune urged the matter on ahead.

  “He has most of the answers we need,” he said. “He can help us, but he won’t talk. Everyone has had a go with him, but he’s sealed up tighter than a mute Rus. Perhaps if his queen were to confront him abou—”

  “There is nothing I have to say to a…a…traitor!” Kallan flushed red. “A Nidingr!”

  “He may know who killed your father.”

  “Enough!”

  And before Rune could rebut, Kallan collected her skirts and fled up the steps to the keep.

  Kallan stared at the imperfect sliver of moon with her burning eyes swollen red. She tucked her legs tighter to her chest as she sat, curled up in her chair and wrapped in the blanket, too stiff to look down, and too far to see Joren at the Southern Keep where he waited atop his steed, peering toward Gunir.

  The gates of the Southern Keep flew open as a ruckus ensued, giving heart to the thousands of troops who rode out from the stables. At Joren’s side, Roald—a wide-shouldered Ljosalfr, as boisterous as Bergen was sly—joined him. His wild black hair flowed down his shoulders. His grand voice released the order, calling his men to order and Joren watched as they fell into line, riding out behind Roald. Buried in the shadows and unseen by all, a Dani crouched in the dark with his orders from Dan’s Mork.

  Bolting from the tree where he cowered, the Dani mounted his horse. He was off through the woods to the south, heading back toward the ship that waited there without care for the fort in the north where Bergen slid from his horse.

  With his long stride, Bergen made his way to the base of the keep and called over the parapet with a booming voice. The gate was unbarred and the oaken doors opened to grant the king’s brother entrance. Soldiers greeted and welcomed the berserker, each eager to bestow a hardy slap to his shoulder, each unaware of the message Forkbeard received that same hour as the Dani, ragged and worn from the road, rushed to his king in Dan’s Mork.

  The scout’s words jolted Forkbeard to his feet as Sigrid, Forkbeard’s wife, stiffened at attention, her eyes wide with blood lust. Forkbeard gave his orders and the scout scurried from his King’s Great Hall in, feeling high on the approval given by his king. Within minutes, the courts and keep at the center of Danelaw buzzed with talk of war, unbeknownst to the pensive thoughts that brewed from Gudrun, who rode with a fury alongside Daggon, desperate in the cause that drove them.

  * * *

  Rune studied the imperfect sliver of moon. Sighing, he moved away from the window and passed a rough hand over his face while digging the sleep from his eyes. A tap on the door jerked his attention.

  “Come,” he invited, and the door flew open with Roald’s grand bellow, which warmed Rune’s blood with a hope he hadn’t felt in days.

  “Joren sends your summons and I answer!” Roald greeted. “How now, dear cousin?”

  The heavy clomp of Roald’s boot seemed to shake the floor as he crossed the sitting room to Rune.

  “What wench and mead do you have waiting for me?” Roald greeted with a jovial smile.

  “Roald!”

  Unable to hold back a wide grin, Rune embraced the son of his father’s brother. “Still as bad as Bergen, I see?”

  “Worse! You must be confident to pull my men from the south,” Roald said.

  “Desperate, Cousin,” he corrected. “Not confident. I am left with little choice so long as a rogue is about. Come.”

  Rune directed Roald to the corridor.

  “I’ll explain all with food and drink—”

  “And women, Cousin. Don’t be holding out on me.”

  Laughing to himself, Rune called down the corridor as he closed the door behind him. “Torunn!”

  Her arms loaded with a bundle of blankets, the key keeper paused at the top of the steps to the Great Hall.

  “Serve the meat!” Rune bade. “Bring the drink!”

  She gave an obedient nod and descended the steps, still clutching her load.

  With an uncomfortable jerk, Rune shuddered as he paused unexpectedly at Kallan’s closed doors. Three days ago she locked herself in. Three days ago Rune began circling his bower, unable to sit, unable to reach in and pull her from the chasm that engulfed her.

  “Come,” Rune said, not bothering this time to try the handle on Kallan’s door. Instead, he led his guest down to the Great Hall, all the while hating himself for not breaking down Kallan’s door three days ago.

  With lingering curiosity, Roald eyed the double doors and followed Rune silently down the steps, his own set of questions suddenly brewing.

  * * *

  The smoke in the Great Hall billowed, adding another layer of warmth around the table strewn with bare bones and crumbs. After emptying their flagons, Rune and Roald lounged at the table with their pipes. The fire crackled beside them.

  “By the gods,” Roald answered, lowering his pipe in awe.

  Rune peered up at Roald.

  “You see why I had no choice,” Rune said.

  “Oh, I see,” Roald said, lowering his pipe to the table. “So what then? We wait for Bergen and Thorold before we march?”

  Rune took a long, pensive draw from his pipe and looked past the smoke that rolled between them. “We wait. Daggon and Gudrun are out there. I coddle what little hope I have for their return.”

  “You’re certain the side they’re on?” Roald leaned closer, eager for Rune’s answer.

  “They defected when Aaric banished them. He’s lost them to their loyalty for Kallan. They won’t go back.”

  Roald arched a brow. A bemused grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

  “Kallan,” he said, taking a final draw from his pipe. “Of her, you’ve said so little,” Roald chided, resting the pipe on the table.

  Rune eyed him suspiciously as he took a long, silent draw from his pipe. As he leaned back on the bench, Roald stretched then slumped back, crossing his arms out on the table.

  “You never did answer me, Cousin.”

  Rune smothered his pipe embers as he slowly exhaled the last of the smoke.

  “You’ve arrived a day or so ahead of Bergen,” Rune said, still fixed on the black of the pipe bowl. “I’m afraid you’ll have to see him about a wench dur—”

  Rune lost his words and his hands froze. His throat clamped shut as Kallan descended the stairs. The deep blues and silver of her gown glistened as she moved, adding a touch of welcomed cool against the suddenly stuffy warmth of the Hall. He balled his fists, cursing the sweat that accumulated down his spine as curiosity whipped Roald’s head around.

  With enth
usiasm, Roald beamed wide and he leapt from the table, smashing his knee in the process. As Rune silently willed Roald’s leg broken, he watched Kallan with a mix of anger, glee, and relief while Roald scampered toward the Dokkalfr. He had barely shifted his gaze when Kallan settled herself onto the bench beside Roald. She shifted a softened glance to Rune.

  “I’m ashamed of you, Rune!” Roald said, settling himself down beside the lady. “Keeping this treasure all to yourself!”

  Rune held his grimace on Kallan, desperate to learn her new game and quick.

  “Have you eaten?” Roald asked, nearly snapping his neck to better face Kallan, who poured her attention over Roald.

  “Just,” Kallan answered with a polite grin, and Rune entertained thoughts of breaking Roald’s neck himself.

  Roald beamed like an idiot and rambled, desperate to strike a topic of conversation that Kallan would respond to.

  Nauseated at Roald’s mating rituals, Rune rolled his eyes and reached for the flagon in front of him.

  “I’ve known Rune and Bergen since they were wee lads, romping about the rivers and dalrs with naught but an arrow shared between them…causing more trouble than their beautiful mum could handle.”

  A spark of interest awakened her glazed eye and a subtle jerk lit Kallan’s face. For the first time since meeting Roald, she was genuinely interested in something he had to say.

  For the sake of his own preservation, Rune downed half the bottle, knowing Roald had her. The ball in his gut twisted, knowing the interest was somehow at his expense. Rune tipped the bottom up for another mouthful and tuned out Roald’s droll. He was nearly through the bottle when two distinct words made it through his sobriety.

  “—somewhere alone.”

  Rune’s flagon struck the table with a grand bang, causing Kallan and Roald to jump and forcing a sneer from them both.

  With Kallan’s trite ‘yes,’ they rose from the table together.

  From the corner of his eye, Rune glared at Roald’s large hand cradling the small of Kallan’s back as he escorted her to the back of the Hall toward the screens passage. As the door leading up to Bergen’s chambers closed behind them, Rune gulped down the last of the mead and slammed the flagon to the table.

  “Torunn!”