Dolor and Shadow (39 page)

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Through forest and valleys, they continued their march, stopping to water the horse when the opportunity presented itself and doing their best to keep a steady pace. Within hours, they found their progress lagging, and frequent breaks at streams did little to lift their spirits. At last, as day’s light succumbed to the void of night’s darkness, Kallan, Rune, and Emma settled down around a fire and roasted game, happy to see most of their journey behind them.

Locked joints and shredded muscles numbed them to a dull, constant ache they could not ignore. Without a word, they ate their share, and, when Rune moved to goad Kallan’s temper, she coldly dismissed herself for the night. It was with a heavy mind that his plans of rumpling her emotions came to an abrupt end.

Miffed with a mood, Rune bid Emma good night and begrudgingly sent himself to bed.

The early night made for an early morning blanketed in gray. Low clouds lingered, suggesting a constant drizzle that never came. They headed out through a heavy, morning mist that thickened as the day dragged on.

Ignoring every pass and short-handed comment Rune made, Kallan kept her tongue stilled and her eyes set on the
path encircling the base of the mountains. Streams and rivers flowed together around the land, leading them on through the forests of Midgard.

For long stretches at a time, the forest remained thin, allowing them a glimpse ahead to the next mountain. Other times, they walked, unaware of the world outside the trees enclosing them. By late day, their steady pace came to a sudden halt at the banks of a wide, thunderous river that obstructed their path.

Emma slid from Astrid’s high back, hitting the ground hard before joining Kallan and Rune on the river banks. They stared upstream and down then out across the torrents flowing north through the trees.

After a moment, Rune nodded downstream.

“We’ll have to cross there,” he shouted, pointing toward a wide region. “It should be shallow enough that we can wade through without too much trouble.”

“Couldn’t we follow it?” Kallan asked as Rune took up Astrid’s reins.

Rune shook his head.

“We need to get to the Nid.” He looked to the southeast. “The river is too wide and the current too swift. Its end will take us to the sea and there is no telling how far back it starts.”

“How do you know this isn’t the Nid?” Kallan asked as Rune pulled Astrid along the edge.

“Because,” he said after finding a reasonable place to cross and easing his feet into the icy water. “We haven’t crossed the Gaulelfr yet.”

He was too busy watching his footing to look her way.

“When will we cross the Gaulelfr?” she asked as he eased further into the waters.

“Now.”

Together, Kallan and Emma scanned the banks where rocks clustered along the edge. Pulling Astrid onto the shoals, Rune signaled to Emma, who obediently followed.

By the second step, she misplaced her footing and slipped, forcing Rune to catch her mid-fall. Up and around, he flung her onto Astrid’s back as Kallan inched her way into the water behind them. Already the relentless roar of the deafening rapids needled its way into their nerves.

“Is it deep?” Kallan asked.

Rune looked out, examining the disrupted grays and white of the current.

“We won’t have to swim,” he said.

The further they walked, the more the surface rose until it stopped at the top of their thighs where the cold bit the most. They made their way over large, white rocks that had washed downstream.

Half way, Rune stopped, forcing Kallan to call from behind.

“What is it?” she asked over the roaring rapids.

“Salmon.” Rune eyed the multiple streaks of silver that swam past. “Big ones.” He felt one brush his leg. It was so close that he contemplated reaching down and grabbing it. A smile burst across his face. “We’ll have to come back here for a few days with a net or some line. It’ll make for a—”

A flash of fire grazed his leg and a large, steel colored salmon, nearly three stones in weight, floated to the surface and swept into Rune’s thigh. With her palm raised, Kallan cradled a tiny flame. Her eyes seared the air.

“Move!”

Stunned, Rune lifted the fish by the base of its tail. His smile didn’t falter as he slogged on, leading the way through the current to the other side with horse and fish in tow.

Sharp splatters of water slapped the ground as Kallan and Rune took turns wringing out their clothes. After fastening the fish to the saddlebag, they continued through the forests of pine.

For hours they trekked through the thick foliage of Throendalog where the yellows dissipated, leaving behind the last lush green of summer. At the mountains’ end, the forest cleared and, for the first time since arriving in Midgard, they could see on ahead to a clear horizon and the sea.

“There.” Rune pointed ahead to where a river twisted with the land. “That is the Nid and there…” He shifted his finger out to the inlet. “…is where she bends to the east.”

For a brief moment, they studied the end of their road, entirely too aware of their throbbing joints and stiff muscles.

“Come along,” Rune said. “We’ll continue north, and follow the Nid to the sea. From there, we follow the beach to the village.”

Down into the valley they continued, plodding on as the foliage thickened. Pines gave way to large clusters of white birch speckled with the occasional ash and pine.

By early afternoon, they joined with the Nid, whose wide, calm waters cut into the land, carving a path they followed through the trees. As the last of the forest cleared, the land sloped down to the shores where the gulls cried and the river veered east.

“Nidaros is named for the Nid that flows around it,” Rune said. “There is only one road into Nidaros and that is the land bridge here.”

A mere three hundred paces of land spanned the area between Nid and the sea. So close to their end, they walked along the beach, weary and ready to rest. In the distance, across the water inlet, rows of rounded mountains blended with hills that lined the fjord, seeming like one continuous mountain.

“The Throendir have established a fishing settlement that flourishes on trade,” Rune continued. “Already they have secured routes to Bjorgvin and the Faer Islands.”

The waves lapped the sands as they made their way down the gray shore.

“And the Throendir themselves?” Kallan asked, sounding worried.

“Eager to help,” Rune assured her, flashing his grin. “Mostly because it will annoy Forkbeard.”

The last of the trees thinned, revealing a barren plain barely visible through a thick fog that had rolled in from the sea.

“I thought Forkbeard was their king,” Kallan said as Emma, too tired to comment, listened atop Astrid.

“Forkbeard thinks he is,” Rune said. “The Throendir prefer the rule of their own people and the Jarls of Lade Northeast of here. When last I was here with my brother, Hakon was complaining about the tribute Forkbeard forces him to pay to keep his ships at bay. Nothing a king hates more than having to pay tribute.”

The first of the homes appeared through the haze.

“Why?” Emma asked.

“How much can you drain a kingdom’s economy all to secure your throne and buy peace for your people?” Rune asked and watched Emma flush. “At that time, when last I was here, Hakon Jarl was talking about putting an end to his levy. In fact, that was the reason for our visit.”

Rune remembered the ornery, old man mulling over a mead. “He called upon Gunir for aid in hopes that we would form an alliance based on our mutual tension with Dan’s Reach.”

They drummed along to the rhythmic clomps of Astrid’s hooves, allowing the silence to rise up between them before Kallan spoke again.

“Did it work?”

Rune held his face unchanged as he looked on to the village ahead. It was a long wait before he answered.

“Gunir accepted the alliance, but…” Rune glanced at Kallan, unsure if this was the time or place to test her temper. “…without assistance against Lorlenalin, we could not lend resources against Forkbeard.”

Visibly taken aback, Kallan flushed as they neared the village.

The fog mingled with a lackadaisical dreariness over Nidaros. The distant plink of a blacksmith’s hammer coldly welcomed them. A dog barked. A lone child cried. The happy buzz that usually accompanied a trader’s port had fizzled to a low drum that dropped every merchant’s spirits to a drudge set to the rhythm of the smithy’s hammer.

Upon closer inspection, a number of the houses, blackened from fire, had fallen in on themselves, and the infamous ports of Nidaros, always stocked with the grandest of ships, were barren. Only a number of smaller vessels lay in the harbor, their keels broken like the back of a once grand berserker. And in the town’s center, amidst the lingering gloom and despair, the main posts had been placed and the floors laid for the makings of what, it could be assumed, would be a mead hall grander than the one behind it.

It was a moment before the Alfar realized they had drawn more than a few inquisitive glances as the crowd around them grew. Emma slid down from the horse, hitting the ground hard as the mutterings of countless faces kept their safe distance.

Stepping closer to Rune, Kallan gripped her dagger unseen. He too shifted his eyes to each blank stare all marked with the distinct, deadened look everyone wears following a catastrophe.

“Who are you?” The gruff voice of an old woman carried over the anxious compilation of curious on-lookers, commanding a hush that the Throendir heeded. Pushing her way through the crowd, a short, stout woman emerged. A ring of keys rattled at her side.

“What business do you have here?” she barked, undaunted by their grand appearances that glistened and gleamed in contrast to the drab, gray village. Anger lined her face. A bit of leather held her long, silver-streaked, blond hair, accenting her thin cheekbones.

Though clearly exhausted, Rune flashed a smile at the woman.

“Hello, Olga.”

The gentleness of his voice seemed to soothe the lines of rage from her face and relaxed her shoulders. Gasping, her entire physique warmed.

“Rune.”

“This is Kallan Eyolfdottir of the Dokkalfar, Queen of Lorlenalin,” Rune said slipping a hand behind the small of Kallan’s back, encouraging her to give a warm smile. “Kallan, this is Olga, wife of Halvard. She runs the place.” When he spoke again, he returned his full attention to the stout woman before him. “We need to see Hakon. Is he here?”

The name seemed to pierce Olga like a twisted blade and she dropped her shoulders, swallowing a visible lump in her throat as her clear, blue eyes swelled.

“I’m afraid you’ve come for nothing,” she said. “Hakon Jarl is dead.”

The heavy burden carried from Jotunheim, doubled as Rune’s head spun for answers.

“Olga?” Emma’s small voice cut through the crowd. As she pushed her way to the forefront, Rune watched the color drain from the old woman and her eyes met Emma’s.

Olga gasped.

“Emma.” With eyes filling with tears, Olga met Rune’s gaze then looked to Kallan. Worry filled her eyes as if she scanned their small group for another. “Dofrar,” she muttered and the tears fell. “Olaf said…he would send troops to Dofrar…”

Her thin bottom lip quivered as Emma spoke.

“Olaf came…we didn’t have a chance. There was no warning. The blood…the rivers were red. Piles of children’ hands...Ivann didn’t make it...Ivann didn’t…And then one of his men…they…he was still in me when his head hit the ground.”

And Emma fell into Olga’s arms and sobbed, quietly at first, then louder, giving voice to the grief of Nidaros.

CHAPTER 50

Earth-green fabric trimmed with gold fell from Kallan’s shoulders. Gold cords laced the dress beneath Kallan’s arms, allowing the fabric to yield where needed and exposing more of her bosom than she was accustomed to. Aside from the skirts stopping mid-shin and the dress being snug in places, it fit perfectly.

“I’m sorry we don’t have anything longer.” Emma flushed as she poured a bucket of the bath water outside the Throendalog bathhouse on the down slope toward the sea.

“It’ll keep the hem out of the mud,” Kallan said as she admired the fine leather boots that hugged her delicate, raw feet and shins.

Preening every which way, Kallan studied the fine embroidery of the fabric and exhaled.

“We don’t usually make much use of the bath house between Laugardagr,” Olga said as she threw Kallan’s old clothes into the fire. “I don’t care what day Halvard says it is. Nothing refreshes a weary traveler more than a hot bath.” She watched the black smoke billow through the ceiling then looked to Kallan. “How do you feel?” she asked as Kallan twisted and turned before the glass, catching the fire and candle light with the gold cords.

Kallan smiled.

“Better,” she said. “I prefer the trousers and tunics for sparring, and avoid the gowns Gudrun insists I wear.” She pulled at a handful of waist-length hair, curled into ringlets over her shoulders, and began positioning them strategically over her front. “But the stench of the Dvergar is embedded into that set and besides…” Kallan sighed, still fussing with her final results. “…it’s nice to look like a woman again.”

“I bet Rune will approve,” Olga said, repositioning the clothes in the fire with a stick.

Kallan’s blood stilled and her face drained before flushing red. Without a word, Kallan looked back to the glass, turning her profile to chance a glance at her rear while she mumbled something akin to ‘not caring what Rune thinks.’

Olga released a bark of laughter that startled Kallan.

“That’s the boldest lie I’ve ever heard.” She shook as she chuckled and tore her eyes away from the fire. “Fool yourself all you like, my dear. I know what I see when I see it, and you have no need to fret. You look as stunning from behind as you do in the front. He’ll approve if he’s not dead or without package.”

Blushing, Kallan ran her hands over her stomach, unnecessarily smoothing the fabric, and repositioning her ringlets one more time.