Fire and Lies (32 page)

K
allan woke the next morning to the steady patter of rain that added a cold, gray drizzle to the keep. The scent of hot fire and damp earth mingled in the air as if cooking out the wet rains from the lingering stale chill. From the warm furs and wools of her bed, she watched the rains welcome the reds and dying greens of autumn that punctured the fading life of Alfheim. The sun had barely risen behind the clouds, encouraging her to linger with the morning drizzle before forcing herself to move.

The keep stirred with the same hesitation. As if the chill outside had slowed their feet, servants took longer serving breakfast, Fires took longer to stoke to life as if the humidity had dampened the fire wood. The scent of porridge and blood sausage lingered from the kitchens through the Great Hall to the bowers.

Torunn dragged herself about the chambers and dully laced Kallan’s deep scarlet gown. Within the Great Hall, Geirolf quietly ate his bowl of hot mushy grains, slurping to the sounds of the hot fire. Beside him, Roald hunched over the table cradling an almost empty mead he had nursed all morning. Geirolf was mid-bite when the doors of the Hall swung open, sending a deafening boom through the keep and jolting everyone from their dreary sleep.

With a wide, mischievous grin soaked through with rain, Bergen dropped his hand from the door, flanked by Thorold, who stood as soaked as Bergen. With wide shoulders, towering height, and a fine, single scar that trailed the left side of his face, Thorold assessed the Great Hall through his mass of black hair and braided beard.

* * *

“Up, Brother!” Bergen shouted, giving a wet slap to Rune’s bare foot. He rounded the side of Rune’s bed and stopped to observe the lack of a female form.

“Where’s Kallan?” Bergen asked, entirely too perky for so early in the morning.

Rune released a groan and rolled with the pillow clamped to his face. Bergen struck Rune’s leg with the arm of the drenched overcoat.

Rune grunted.

Leaning down to the pillow, Bergen allowed the cold rain to drip onto Rune as he bellowed.

“Where’s Kallan?”

Rune slapped the pillow to Bergen’s face and forced himself upright, emphasizing the morning’s grogginess.

“Have you checked your bower?” Rune said, swinging his legs over the side of his bed and digging the sleep from his eyes.

“Why isn’t she here with you?” Bergen asked, refusing to give Rune space free of the dripping overcoat.

Miserably, Rune dropped his heavy hand to his lap and forced his eyes to focus on Bergen, Thorold, and Geirolf standing around his bed.

“What the Hel happened to you?” Bergen asked of Rune’s black eye and swollen, split lip.

“Bergen…” Rune tried then gave up, deciding he was too tired to argue.

“What happened to my bow?” Bergen shrieked, taking up the mangled bow that had been tossed aside in the corner.

“Kallan and I…we…she…”

Bergen grinned, forgetting his bow.

“That good, huh?”

“Kallan’s still in her room,” Roald said, coming to stand in the doorway.

“Oh.” Rune grimaced. “You’re still here?” he asked of Roald.

Digging his fists again into his eyes, Rune winced at the sharp shots of pain sent burning through his face. He stretched and yawned as a series of cold, wet drops fell onto Rune’s comfortably warm legs and feet.

“Gi’off,” Rune grumbled, pushing back on Bergen, who still wore his saturated travelling clothes.

“Come on! Awake!” Bergen declared, giving a sloppy, wet slap to Rune’s bare shoulder. “We have news! We need mead! Geirolf, fetch your wench! Get the mead and have her bring salted meats…enough for five and yourself if you want. And bring Kallan!”

“Told you countless times, not my wench…” Geirolf grumbled as he trudged out the door to find his wench.

Displeased with his wet shoulder, Rune scowled and forced himself up from the bed.

“Thorold.” Rune nodded to the tall captain standing behind Bergen.

As he shuffled his way to the chest at the foot of his bed, his company cleared a path. With a sharp headache that drummed his head, Rune pulled on some pants and a tunic.

After stripping the cloak from his shoulders and peeling the shirt from his back, Bergen dumped the clothes over the back of a chair to dry. With a great amount of banging and clutter, he pulled up a chair to the fire and dropped himself down, stripping the saturated boots and wraps from his raw feet.

With a lot less clumping and shuffle, Thorold followed suit and dropped himself into a chair in Rune’s chamber. Within minutes, Geirolf was back with Torunn, an armful of mead, and a tray full of candied fruits and salted meats. As soon as Torunn placed the tray on a table, the men happily gorged themselves. She quietly took her leave as the men relieved Geirolf of the mead.

Ignoring the tray of provisions, Rune snatched a bottle and slumped back into his chair from the night before. A flash of red caught his eye and Rune lifted his face to Kallan standing quietly in the doorway. She had already donned the leather overcoat gifted to her by Ori, and, for a moment, Rune pondered what had become of their brief companion.

“My lady,” Rune greeted Kallan too formally.

“Your Majesty,” Kallan coldly rebutted.

After a moment, the shuffle and scrape of chairs pulled their attention back to the room and Kallan shifted her attention to each face, taking in all who had joined them. She sharply inhaled and stiffened her back as Thorold gave a slight nod, acknowledging Kallan.

“Lady Kallan,” his bear-like voice flowed like smooth mead.

“Captain,” Kallan nodded.

Bewildered, Rune looked about as if an explanation would suddenly erupt from the floor.

“You know each other?” Rune asked, so perplexed as to question the amount of mead he had already consumed.

“They do, Rune,” Bergen said as he chomped down on a large strip of salted venison. “It’s why we’re here.”

Rune looked from Bergen to Kallan to Thorold to Kallan and waited.

“You remember the Battle of Swann Dalr,” Bergen said, refreshing Rune’s memory through a mouthful of meats, and Rune rolled his eyes.

“Yes,” Rune said, vividly recalling the blow he sent to Kallan’s head, and her pale face as he recognized her from the wood. He almost vomited as he recalled Borg’s offer to exchange Kallan’s life for his freedom. His black eye suddenly hurt tenfold.

“I remember,” Rune said.
Ages ago, it seemed.

“Do you remember why we lost that fight?” Bergen asked, chomping down another strip of meat and filling his mouth with warm, thick mead.

Rune thought back from Aaric’s offer, Kallan dying on the forest floor, the Seidkona, and the wandering wench… Rune clenched his jaw as he shifted a swollen eye to Kallan and recalled the boar and her stance to spear the boar with her Seidr.

Bergen gulped twice, oblivious to his brother’s absent-mindedness, and pulled the bottle from his mouth.

“Kallan sent troops to the north, forcing me to ride to Thorold’s aid,” Bergen said, pulling Rune back to the conversation.

Silently, Rune nodded, suddenly aware of his sweating palm clenched to the neck of the bottle.

“You had just returned from the assault in the south,” Bergen continued.

The memory flared to life as Rune remembered.

“Yes,” Rune brooded. “Daggon had the advantage when his queen ordered him to pull back and abandoned his victory.”

He shot a scowl toward Kallan, who smiled with delight.

“The queen,” Bergen repeated. “Really, what happened between you two last night?”

“Only after we regrouped in Swann Dalr did we realize the extent of our losses,” Rune said. “Daggon’s troops had meant to weaken us, not annihilate us.”

Bergen popped a small bit of meat into his mouth. “And I, having received word of an attack in the north, rode to Thorold’s aid and left Swann Dalr vulnerable to an attack. When I arrived at Thorold’s Keep, it was as I feared. Thousands lay dead. I hadn’t been there half a day when Joren arrived to tell me about the attack in Swann Dalr.” Bergen shook his head. “I had to leave Thorold to his slaughter for a chance to preserve the king.”

“We delayed burning the corpses,” Thorold said, filling the chamber with his rich baritone.   “We waited for three days…but Odinn never came. The Valkyrjur never rode to clear the battle field. Just as we were ready to give up and begin burning bodies, my troops rose again.”

“Well after I had seen the number of warriors dead at the Northern Keep,” Bergen said.

A proud grin twinkled in Thorold’s eye, as his gaze came to rest on Kallan still standing in the door.

“Rose up?” Rune asked.

“Awakened,” Kallan corrected.

All eyes met hers for an explanation, and Kallan inhaled. From her pouch, she withdrew an apple and tossed it across the room to Rune, who caught it one-handed.

Still clutching the bottle of mead in one hand, Rune bit into the apple and at once felt the clotted blood in his eye thin and break up as the purples, blacks, and blues faded from his face. All eyes watched enthralled as his lip mended itself and the sharp bruises and pains he woke with that morning vanished.

“It was a sleeping spell,” Kallan said. “A spell that Gudrun concocted on a grand scale to put any within a certain range to sleep for a period of time.”

The hushed room stared in disbelief at the Dokkalfr as Kallan passed a glance around the room.

“We didn’t desire devastation,” she said. “With what we had planned in Swann Dalr, we knew we would succeed with or without slaughtering thousands in the north.” She shrugged. “We didn’t need you dead. We needed you distracted. It would have been wasteful to kill so many without cause.”

“Why, with such a power, didn’t you simply end this sooner?” Rune asked.

“It was a new spell,” Kallan said. “Gudrun only recently obtained the ingredients, a very rare…rare ingredient. We used the last of it on the batch we mixed for that advance. It took as long as it did to perfect the results. Otherwise, paralysis sets in and you won’t wake.”

“How many?” Rune asked, at once realizing the grandeur of the news Bergen harbored.

“Four thousand,” Thorold supplied, barely able to contain the glint in his eye.

“Why was no word sent with this information?” Rune asked with his eyes fixed on Thorold.

“It was,” Bergen said.

“Several times,” Thorold said. “Until Bergen arrived, we thought you knew.”

“How—”

“Someone somewhere intercepted the scout,” Bergen said.

“Borg,” Rune said.

“Possibly,” Bergen said. “Four thousand, Rune.”

“But how do you know the queen?” Rune asked. “At what point did you…”

The words were lost in Rune’s throat.

“I made an appearance a day before the attack,” Kallan said, filling in the blanks. “I summoned his counsel to offer a chance to surrender and appeared as the Seidkona. I had no intent to reconcile, and I knew Thorold wouldn’t make a move without your consent. I also knew that you were in the south with Daggon. That was our plan, after all. I wanted Thorold to see the Seidkona in the North and report her position—my position—in hopes you would send for Bergen and alter your defenses at Swann Dalr. And you did.”

“With the four thousand from the north,” Rune asked, “and another five thousand from the south, we are left with ten thousand here in Gunir. Kallan, where do your numbers stand?”

“We last counted our own at seventeen thousand, nine hundred. You can count my own and Gudrun’s Seidr enough to even out those numbers if it comes to a fight.”

Rune gave a subtle twitch at the mention of Gudrun’s name. Bergen bowed his head into the strips of meat. Geirolf shuffled uncomfortably in his chair.

“What?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

The air stiffened as everyone waited for Rune to answer.

“Gudrun isn’t here,” Rune muttered and braced for what was to come next.

“What do you mean?” Kallan asked. “Of course she is. I just sent Torunn to—”

“You didn’t tell her?” Bergen asked. His disbelief blanketed his face.

“Tell me what?” Kallan asked.