Authors: Angela Chrysler
Dolor and Shadow (58 page)
“Like Hel I will,” Kallan said.
“I don’t see how you’ve a choice,” Bergen said.
“I’ll not be dragged about by this
uskit
!”
Bergen raised his sword and Kallan relit her Seidr.
“Lady Kallan,” Rune said, “has been invited as my guest.”
“I decline,” Kallan said, balancing her blue orbs.
“She will accompany me to Gunir as my guest…” Rune furrowed his brow at Kallan, forcing a civil tone in his voice. “…or be taken there by force…with rope.”
“Gladly,” Bergen said. Rune shifted a warning look to Bergen.
“There…” Rune gave the same warning look to Kallan. “…she and I will assemble to discuss our terms for peace.”
Kallan shifted her attention to Bergen and then to Rune before finally lowering her arms and extinguishing her flames.
“Now,” Rune said with a great effort to bring about their reconciliation. “Shake hands.”
Kallan and Bergen didn’t move.
“Shake hands, Kallan,” Rune said.
With a silent glance from one brother to the next, Kallan extended a hand to Bergen, who took it, shook once, then snapped their hands down with vehemence.
Rune grinned with a finality that put the topic to rest.
“Kallan has agreed to ride with us,” Rune said visibly delighted.
“Sail,” Bergen corrected with a tone that sounded as displeased with the arrangement as Kallan looked.
Rune furrowed his brow. “You brought the ships?”
In the distance, a warrior led Freyja by the reins to where Rune and Bergen stood.
“There is no direct water way from Gunir to the Raumelfr,” Bergen said. “And there is no crossing the Raumelfr without ships.”
With her defenses raised, Kallan toggled her attention between the brothers, and backed into Astrid.
“How far are we?” Rune asked, accepting Freyja’s reins from the warrior.
“Three days without favoring winds.” Bergen’s answer forced Kallan’s attention that neither noticed.
Rune nodded. “Then we shall embark.”
The command sent the men back through the wood toward the shores ahead.
Clutching Astrid’s reins, Kallan remained immobile, and moved only when Rune stopped and extended an open hand to her.
A cold in her eyes had settled in.
“Don’t think this changes anything, Ljosalfr,” Kallan said and Rune lowered his hand to his side. “The first chance I get, I’m going home.”
Rune dropped his shoulders. “Does what we’ve been through mean nothing?”
“Should it?” There was a bite in her words.
“No.” Rune nodded and clenched his fist. “I guess not.”
After several moments, Kallan pulled on Astrid’s reins and, with a cold shoulder, followed Bergen down to the ships that would carry her to Gunir.
Olaf sat hunched at his desk. He clutched the tankard in his hand and let his blond hair cover the map. His eyes lingered on Dan’s Reach, where he stared, unable to pull his musings away from the southern lands and Forkbeard.
He would win back the land of the Northern Way and the people there. They would follow him, abandon their gods, or die. The Empire would hear of his deeds and they would support him. He was certain.
A sudden sharp chill made him scowl, but before he could bark ‘get out,’ a thick sleep invaded him and he felt his anger ebb. A drugged complacence took its place and he turned to the Seidkona with hair as black as a raven’s wing and eyes as gold as the desert sun.
“Well?” Fand said with her slick grin poised so perfectly on her lips. They were the color of plums he had seen from the far east. “Where is it?” she asked and his arousal subsided.
“I lost it,” he growled and turned back to the desk, his map, and brooding.
“You lost it,” Fand whispered and slid across the carpet of the lavishly decorated tent.
“We were ambushed,” Olaf said. He threw back his tankard and downed the rest of his mead. “We lost everything, including the witch.”
“So…” Fand was no longer grinning. “Go get her.”
“She’s in Alfheim.”
“She’s in…No matter. It shouldn’t be too hard to retrieve her.”
Olaf stood, shoving his chair back as he came to his full height. As if boasting his power, he shoved his face into Fand’s and studied the gold that encircled her irises.
“You never told me she was Lorlenalin’s queen.”
If Fand ever looked off guard, it was in that moment, just before she smiled and emitted a soft laugh. She stroked the yellow strands of his beard as if patting it down into the fur lapels of his coat.
“Does it matter?” she asked, not bothering to look in his eyes.
“It matters,” he said. “My army isn’t equipped to take on the Dokkalfar. She’ll come after me and my men and not even your poisons can hold her back.”
When she refused to look at him, Olaf caught her by the wrist, forcing her eyes to his.
“I am organizing a war against Forkbeard,” he said. “We are in the middle of an invasion. I don’t have the resources to defend myself against the Alfar armies. Their numbers are too great. You want the pouch?” Fand yanked her wrist free. “Go get it yourself.”
“You would give up your chance for eternal life?” she asked.
“Once I have reclaimed my father’s land, I can move on Alfheim and strip the queen of her pouch, her virtue, and her pride,” Olaf said. “Once I have taken back what is mine, then I claim eternal life for myself. Until then, my goal is Forkbeard.”
Fand turned her back and strode to the door, taking the thick air with her.
“You will never see your father’s land,” Fand said, stopping at the door, “so long as I have breath in me.”
She pulled back the hide and a gust of cold engulfed the room as she peered at the king.
“Forkbeard will be the death of you,” she whispered and, releasing the hide, she took the form of a raven and flew from Olaf’s tent before the hide fell back. The cold caw of the raven lingered like death upon his throat.
###
Thank you for your support. May the kindest of words always find you.
– Angela B. Chrysler
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Angela B. Chrysler is a writer, logician, and die-hard nerd who studies philosophy, theology, historical linguistics, music composition, and medieval European history in New York with a dry sense of humor and an unusual sense of sarcasm.
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A complete list with audio is available at
http://www.angelabchrysler.com/pronunciation-guide/
Alfr (Alf) Elf
Alfar (Al-far) Elves
Alfheim (Alf-hame) Elf Home
Bergen Tryggveson (Bear-gen Treeg-vay-son) Ljosalfar and berserker
Caoilinn (Kway-linn) Ljosalfar
Daggon (Day-gon) Dokkalfar
Dokkalfr (Do-kalf) Dark elf
Dokkalfar (Do-kal-far) Dark Elves
Dubh Linn (Doov Linn) Dublin, Ireland
Dvergr (D-vare-g) Singular
Dvergar (D-vare-gar) Plural See “
Regarding the Dvergar
” at www.angelabchrysler.com
Eilif (A-leef) Dokkalfar
Eire’s Land (Air’s Land) Ireland
Elding (El-ding) A mysterious metal infused with the Seidr only used by the Dokkalfar and the Dvergar.
Elding (El-ding) The age in which the Alfar reach full maturity and stop aging.
Finn (Fin) The Old Norse word for the Sami
Finntent (fin-tent) The Old Norse words for a portable teepee-styled tent still used by the Sami
Fjandinn (Fee-yan-din) The old Norse equivalent to the Christian word “Devil” used by Norsemen prior to the introduction of the Christian culture.
Freyja (Fray-ya) Norse goddess
Gamme (Ga-may) The Old Norse word for an earthen home still used by the Sami
Ginnungagap (Gi-noon-ga-gap) The Great Gap
Gudrun (goo-droon) Dokkalfar
Gunir (Goo-neer) The Ljosalfar city in Alfheim
Hel (Hel) Loptr’s daughter, Hel, guardian and overseer of Helheim
Helheim (Hel-hame) The Norse version of the Underworld where Loptr’s daughter, Hel, resides.
Idunn (I-thoon or I-doon) Norse goddess
Jotun (Yo-toon) Giants
Jotunheim (Yo-toon-hame) The home of the giants
Kallan Eyolfdottir (Ka-lon A-olf-do-teer) Dokkalfar
Loptr (Lopt) The Old Norse name for Loki
Lorlenalin (Lor-len-a-lin) The Dokkalfar city in Alfheim
Ljosalfr (Lee-yos-alf) Light Elf
Ljosalfar (Lee-yos-al-far) Light Elves
Midgard (Mid-gard) Literal translattion “Middle-Earth.” Midgard is the human realm.
Nidingr (Ni-thing) Literal translation: “Nothing.” The status of “outlaw” given to a dishonorable coward who has been stripped of his station, property, and citizenship in Norse culture.
Odinn (O-thin or O-din) Norse god
Olaf Tryggvason (O-lof Treeg-va-son) Historically, the first king of Norway.
Note: Olaf Tryggvason has no relation to Bergen or Rune whose last name is Tryggveson. The name of Olaf’s father was “Trygg” while the father of Rune and Bergen is “Tryggve.”
Seidr (Say-th or Seed) The life source bound to the elements and all living things and referred to as “magic” in the Deserts.
Seidkona (Say-th-kona or Seed-ko-na) Old Norse for “Witch”
Surtr (sert) Lord of the Fire Giants
Sigyn (See-gin) Loptr’s wife
Svartálfr (Svart-alf) Black Elf
Svartálfar (Svart-alf-ar) Black Elves
Svartálfaheim (Svart-alf-a-hame) Home of the Black Elves
Thing (Thing) The Norwegian Parliament still in existence today in Norway.
Tryggve (Treeg-vay) Ljosalfar
Wicce (Witch) Anglo-Saxon word for “Witch”
A look into Lorlenalin’s Lies: Tales of the Drui Book #2
CHAPTER 1
Rune followed Bergen down to the water’s edge. Before they reached the shore, Kallan could see the masts of six wide, longships stretched from the beach where Bergen had them pulled to land with roller logs. The water lapped their sterns causing the wood to whine against the current.
The keel of each ship rose up and out of the river, reaching to the skies at each end, where they curled into themselves at the top of each bow and stern. Several of the men had settled the yardarms into the trestles and were preparing the sails while others raised the final mast. With a series of ropes, raw strength, and the aid of the mast step, the Ljosalfar pushed the mast upright and secured it into the keelson within the hull.
Ljosalfar collected fresh water from the river, pouring it into large barrels for drinking while others were busy dumping their weapons and mail into their sea chests onboard.
“Your majesty…here!” cried a man with an aged and unscarred face. He waved fiercely from the farthest boat in an attempt to attract Rune’s attention. With a nod, Rune pulled a saddlebag from Freyja’s pack and dumped it on the ground before moving to take Astrid’s reins from Kallan who tightened her grip and scowled.
“Well, you don’t mean to leave him here, do you?” Rune asked in reply. He tried again and, succeeding this time, snatched the reins from Kallan.
She watched as Rune led Astrid and Freyja down to the water’s edge where a lone ship had docked parallel to the shore. Following the other, Freyja, then Astrid, stepped over the side of the longboat, tipping the entire boat high onto its side. As the horses stepped in, the boat rocked with vigor, forcing the old man to cling to the mast for balance. After accepting the reins from Rune, the old man gave an affectionate, but hearty pat to Astrid’s deep russet neck and gave Rune a welcomed nod.
He paused for a moment to ogle the unusual breed that was Astrid before running his hand through Freyja’s white, silken locks. Paying more mind to the horses than his footing, the old man caught his ankle on a large mass of orange and white as a cat scampered across the ship in pursuit of a rodent. With a slew of curses, the old man recovered his balance and led Astrid and Freyja to the center of the boat. There, he tied their reins to the mast alongside a handful of fjord horses and a charcoal gray, courser mare.
“That is Gunnar.”
Kallan jumped, unaware Rune had returned to her side.
“He is our horse master,” Rune said, throwing the load over his shoulder.
With interest, Kallan watched as Gunnar the horse master offered a bucket of grains to Astrid, who ate graciously, happy for the change from apples and grass.
“He couldn’t be in better hands,” Rune assured her. “Come.”
When she refused to take his hand, he wrapped an arm around her back and cautiously, led her down to the boats, stopping at the nearest ship.
The edge of the water sloshed onto the sands as Rune led Kallan to the gangplank. She took in the ropes and the tie lines, and the grand oak strakes that overlapped each other. Men had taken their seat on top of their sea chests and others had already positioned their oars through the oar ports. A few were preoccupied with fastening their shields to the side of the boat.
The instant weight of seventy sets of eyes turned her way as her foot touched down on the deck of the boat, and she lowered herself from the gangplank into the first of her enemy’s territory. Kallan raised her face to the sudden silence that blanketed the ship and slowly took in every face staring back with as much hate as she harbored for each.
Without a word, she released the gunwale as Rune came up behind her. Stopping long enough to acknowledge his men, he extended a hand and directed her to the ship’s stern. Her muffled footfalls sounded too clearly over the river’s gentle waves as Kallan continued to shift her eyes from port to starboard taking in every face that condemned her presence on their ship.
With a jerk, Kallan stopped too suddenly as she neared the aft of the ship. Bergen’s bare back greeted her. Thin, pale scars made visible in the sun’s light, marred the length of his spine. He bustled with a rope at the side oar, unaware of her arrival. Behind her, Rune closed in, preventing her from bounding back the way she came and running, full speed, back to shore. Her face rose in a sneer as she clenched her fist with the urge to fire. The cold stares of the Ljosalfar soldiers bore down with reminder that, at one point or another, she had attempted to kill each one of them.
Kallan had nearly finished plotting the dash to Astrid and her escape route, when Rune jarred her thoughts and pulled her out of her daydream with his own petty bickering.
“Don’t make me remind you who is king,” Rune said.
“By a random chance granted to you by a few seconds and Freyr’s sense of humor,” Bergen retorted.
“I have to shove this damn arrow head through my shoulder and I’d prefer a heavy dose of mead to do it, now give me the booze!”
Bergen flashed Rune a grin.
“Father always did warn mother she was too soft on you,” Bergen said, tossing a flask to Rune, intentionally forcing him to catch it with his impaled shoulder.
With a wince, Rune stifled a groan and pulled off the stopper with his teeth. A second later he downed half the flask. Exhaling through the incessant pulsing in his shoulder, Rune delivered a swift vexed kick to the collection of furs he had dumped into a pile against the stern-side trestle where the men had stored the roller logs.
“Kallan.” He spoke gently, dropping himself into the pile of furs with a groan.
Grateful for the chance to ignore Bergen, Kallan kneeled on the furs behind Rune and quickly, gratefully, went to work. Rune was already talking to her over his shoulder when she rolled up her sleeves, withdrew her seax, and positioned the flat of the blade over the broken end of the arrow in his back.
“Alright, what you’ll need to do—”
Rune howled as Kallan slammed her palm into the blade, driving the arrow through the Rune’s shoulder. Happy to be busying herself with her hands, Kallan shuffled herself around to Rune’s front and took hold of the arrow’s tip, pulling the rest of the arrow out. The wound bled freely.
A second helping of curses rambled free from Rune’s mouth as Kallan proceeded to tear up strips of cloth she used to dab at the wound, saying nothing as she focused on her work. Throwing his head back, Rune gulped down the rest of Bergen’s mead. The sweat on his forehead beaded as he dropped the empty flask to his lap.
“You couldn’t use an apple?”
Kallan raised a hateful eye to Rune and ripped another strip of fabric.
“Where did you find the cloth?” Rune asked dragging his tongue through his stupor.
Again, Kallan met Rune’s glossed eyes as she ripped off another strip. Behind her, Ottar led a wave of grins that passed through the ship and ended with Bergen, each warrior understanding what Hel Rune was in for as Kallan made rags of Rune’s tunic.
Throwing back the empty flask before remembering it was empty. Rune suddenly realized the severity of his drunken state.
“Hey, Bergen,” Rune slurred, “What’s in this stuff?”
Kallan sat herself down against her pile of furs as Bergen flashed a grin that matched the gleam in his eye.
“What happened to your shirt?” he asked dropping himself at the tiller as Rune examined the frayed ends of his tunic.
“Move out!” Bergen bellowed content not to answer.
One by one, with gangplanks raised, the ships pushed off from shore and several men waded waist high in the water, passing the logs from shore to the rowers. With fluid precision, the rowers passed the logs overhead and laid them into the trestles. After climbing on board, the last of the men settled themselves into their places along the hides and floorboards.
Thirty rowers lined each side of each ship. Those who climbed from the water slogged to their sea chests and settled in place as the rowers took up their oars and pushed off the land while the seaside oarsmen began rowing. They found their rhythm and, within minutes, the river’s current carried them. The wind picked up and shortly thereafter, they found a favorable wind.
“Drop the sails!” Bergen shouted from his seat at the side oar.
In unison, a handful of those who had raised the roller logs proceeded to untie the sail fastened to the yardarm. They took up the halyards and, together, hoisted the yardarm to the tip of the mast, where the flag of Gunir, encrusted with the boar’s head encircled with runes, snapped in the wind.
Before they could finish tying off the lines and securing the sheets, the sails billowed. The increased speed was instant and, for the moment, Kallan forgot Rune’s drunkenness, his bloody shoulder, or the Dark One sitting behind her, coddling the tiller like a boy happy with a new stick.
With a newfound eagerness, she studied the ships behind them. Each followed suit and one by one, their sails unfurled, catching the wind that pushed them with ease through the water. In the far distance behind her ship, she found Astrid unconcerned with the sea voyage as he happily buried his head in his bucket of grains. She watched Gunnar with peeked interest as the old horse master inspected a fjord stallion. Giving Gunnar a playful swat, the horse whipped his black and white tail as the old codger averted his interests to the unusual strands of Freyja’s coat.
After patting the stallion’s hindquarters, Gunnar walked to the charcoal gray, courser mare. As tall as Astrid, she radiated with a black sheen that matched her sleek tail and long mane. Kallan lost herself in the serenity of that ship, where only the rowers and a man at the side oar were present with Gunnar and the horses.
She exhaled, slowly releasing her breath through her nose in an attempt to remain unnoticed by Bergen’s men. The wind whipped her hair about as she looked to the vibrant greens of Alfheim, almost within an arm’s reach along the banks of the river. Ahead, the Raumelfr captivated Kallan’s attention. The lands rose and fell with the river, moving and twisting with it as the winds carried them through the water.
“You’ve never been to sea before,” Rune said as drowsiness, pain, and liquor took the better part of him.
The interruption brought her dazed dreams back to the boat, reminding her of the company she kept aboard her enemy’s vessel. Quickly, she slunk back down into the pile of furs.
With the sails billowed, the rowers pulled in their oars and deposited them onto the floorboards, filling the ship with a collection of thuds and clunks. Stretching out among the barrels, sea chests, and ropes strewn about on the deck, Kallan watched, horror-stricken, as the Ljosalfar men on board proceeded to scratch, amuse, and relieve themselves overboard.
Quickly, Kallan readjusted her seat, settling for a view of the stern, where Bergen sat, relaxed and bare-chested. Rune’s head bobbed about sleepily as Kallan shifted her gaze from Bergen to the gunwale, to the hem of her skirts, and to Rune, who gave a sudden jerk of his head to force himself awake. The gnawing awareness of her enemy’s presence nagged at her consciousness.
At last, with much hesitation, Kallan raised her eyes to Bergen, who had fixed his full attention on her like a mountain cat stalking a lone, limp deer. The massive black of his eyes glared, loathing her presence there on his ship, as much as she hated being there. Despite shifting her position to better face Rune, Bergen’s dark eyes continued to dig into her.
Rune dozed again. His hand clutched tightly to the empty flask as Kallan clasped her hands to contain the urge to attack. Bergen’s scowl burrowed deeper, until the side of her head burned from his glare. Abandoning all regard, and embracing her resolve, Kallan snapped her eyes to Bergen and mirrored his dead, cold stare.
They glowered in silence, their scowls saying so much more than any throng of insults could ever say. Both held their stance, neither willing to break, both daring the other to be the first to weaken, to break the silence, to—
“Enough!” Rune barked, “We have three days ahead of us and I’ll be damned if I spend every bit of this voyage with the two of you snarling at each other!”
Bergen broke his grimace first and Kallan lowered her eyes. Catching a flash of fur and the tip of a tail of a white ship cat, for a moment, Kallan was relieved for the distraction.
Revived from whatever stupor Bergen’s mead had induced, Rune pushed himself up onto the furs, wincing, before settling himself back down against the trestle.
From the corner of her eye, Kallan peered at Bergen, who was suddenly interested on a certain point at the head of the ship.
“Ottar!” he called.
While picking at his fingers with the point of his dagger, a wide-shoulder man glanced up from where he leaned against the fore trestle. Pushing himself upright, he ambled to the stern. A large scar carved into his right shoulder flashed as he moved, holding Kallan’s attention longer than she had intended.
Stopping over Kallan, he turned his hateful eye down with a cold glare.
“What is it, Dokkalfr?” he growled. “They don’t grow real men in that Mountain City of yours?”
Kallan dug her fingers into her skirts and, with all her will, forced her head low. While scowling, she attempted to calm the sick in her stomach as Ottar continued on toward Bergen. After a quick shuffle, Bergen passed the tiller to Ottar, who took Bergen’s seat.