Fire and Lies Page 7

  Surtr watched his words relinquish the last of Sigyn’s hope as she forced her eyes from his.

  “I can not stand alone against the powers of Asgard,” Surtr said. “I will not stretch my hand to lend my aid to Loptr.”

  His final answer took Sigyn’s hope from her and she nodded with a burden countless times heavier than when she had entered his hall moments ago. She had barely moved when Surtr added, “I am sorry, Sigyn.”

  Without a word and bearing no grudge, Sigyn forced her stiff legs to carry her back through the doors.

  At the base of the steps, Sigyn gripped Svadilfari’s saddle in an attempt to pull herself up. But, drained of her strength, she buckled beneath the weight of her sorrow, and resting her head onto the horse, sobbed silently.

  “Sigyn?”

  The Jotunn snapped her tear-stained face to the eyes of Sinmara, who quietly descended the stairs. The reds of her gown swept the brimstone as the flames of her long, golden hair trailed behind her. Her skin glowed white from the heat of the blaze that composed her flesh.

  As if afraid it would suddenly slip from her grasp, Sinmara clutched to her bosom a chest fastened with nine locks. Upon closer assessment, Sigyn saw that the locks had been opened. As she drew nearer, Sinmara lifted the lid to reveal a large bundle wrapped in amadou.

  Sigyn wiped the tears from her eyes as if ashamed, and forced her composure.

  “Shortly after the waters flowed from the Gap of Ginnunga and formed our worlds, before the Great War that unified the gods, Loptr lent his aid to Surtr against Niflheim. Surtr’s stubbornness is fixed, but his interest brews.”

  Sigyn held her attention, piqued with curiosity and restored hope.

  “I give you the blade Loptr left in my keep, won with the price I set.”

  Sigyn shifted her eyes to the strands of fine-spun gold that flowed from Sinmara’s head, knowing, full well, they were once the locks of Sif that Loptr had taken from her.

  “Surtr desires to fulfill your request, but can not so long as he stands alone. If it is Surtr’s support you seek, go with Laevateinn and return with Loptr beside you.”

  Sinmara passed the bundle to Sigyn. Cold permeated the bundle, snapping and crackling against the heat, and forcing her body to shudder with a chill that flowed up her spine like Nordic lake water. Ingratiated, she held tightly to Laevateinn and called out as Sinmara walked up the stairs.

  “Sinmara.”

  With elegance, the giantess turned. The locks rippled down her back like a sheet of golden water.

  “Thank you.”

  Sinmara smiled gently and re-collected her skirts as she continued up the steps.

  With haste, Sigyn snapped around and secured the bundle beneath the saddle. She climbed atop Svadilfari without delay and rode past the dragons, out through the gates of Muspellsheim to return to Loptr’s side once more.

  The next morning came with a nip in the air that blanketed the camp with a chill. The rare streaks of sunlight that permeated the clouds did little to heat the ground. Blankets were bundled, tents were folded, and the camp reloaded onto the decks of the ships.

  With a heavy heart that weighed down Kallan’s spirit, she trudged to her pile of hides on board and hugged her legs close to calm the sick that flipped her stomach. Knowing Gunir was only hours away, Kallan pressed her face into her knees as Bergen barked the order that sent the ships to sea.

  The Ljosalfar buzzed with an eagerness that recharged their enthusiasm, fueling their good humor. At the sight of the approaching shores, a series of whoops and cheers erupted, sending a new energy through the ships. A second wave of nausea rippled through Kallan.

  Never waning from his seat at the trestle, Rune kept a fervent eye on his vassal. Balling her hands into fists, Kallan attempted to ease her shaking. Her complexion grew paler with her increasing worry as the Ljosalfar bubbled with a contagious joy Kallan couldn’t catch.

  The trees thinned as the rolling mountains at the lake’s edge opened to the grassy plains and the Klarelfr’s delta. Amid the delta, a vast island rose up from the waters. The whole of its earth held the most ancient city of Alfheim: Gunir, house of Lodewuk, the High King. To the north of the city island, the Klarelfr split in two and flowed along the banks of Gunir. On the east side, beside the docks, a dry bridge blocked all ships from passage and provided a road from Gunir to a barren plain that led to the edge of Alfheim Wood and Swann Dalr. On the west bank, the Klarelfr emptied undisturbed into Lake Wanern.

  Gray and granite stones of the crenelated wall encased Gunir’s keep, which towered over the entire city. Sleek runs of steps flowed down the high mount where the keep rose up over a sea of homes encompassing the island. Thatch roofs stretched down to the river. There, the houses stopped with the slope of the land, which greeted hundreds of long ships docked where the island met the lake on the east side.

  The men erupted into greetings that carried over the city. Kallan jerked her head from her knees, her insides knotted as she sank deeper into her overcoat. Her body trembled uncontrollably the moment the ship touched land and the men threw the rigging to shore.

  The jovial bustle was instant. The blur of images passed her by as Kallan lost herself to the fear that permeated her core.

  “Kallan.”

  With her face stricken, she snapped her head up. Rune stood over her with a gentle smile and an outstretched hand. Without hesitation, she took hold with a death grip that granted her the courage to face Gunir and its judgment.

  Her legs like deadened weights, Kallan rose, forcing her head high with the pride of her people. Rune led her through the chaos and excitement, down the gangplank to the river that lapped the land.

  The moment Rune’s foot touched down on dry land, a sudden swarm engulfed them. Unfamiliar hands pulled at him, while strange, dark faces pushed her aside. The foreign slur of roughened accents peppered the speech of the Ljosalfar as women with their children rushed to the docks in search of their mate. Lovers locked together while others frantically searched for their own, and children impatiently tugged at their father’s garments demanding a hug. Kallan moved closer to Rune, dissolving the last of the space between them as if he could somehow overshadow her existence. His grip tightened and he pulled her through the streets.

  Servants greeted their lost king. An occasional hateful glance found Kallan as they lent their aid and welcomed Rune. Bergen’s laughter emerged from the crowd and Kallan glanced to the berserker buried in a busty brunette. Kallan blushed and averted her attention back to Rune, who led her on through the boisterous noise that webbed their way around the sea of homes, shops, markets, docks, and stables.

  People came and went in waves as Kallan and Rune made their way to the end of the city and the wide, stone steps where the crenelated wall on the motte. Before they could reach the first step, a bellowing roar filled the air.

  “Rune!”

  The roughened scratch of Geirolf’s voice carried over the chaos, and Kallan jumped into Rune. With a laugh, the old man rushed from the doublewide doors at the top of the steps, down to Rune like a maddened bull.

  “I’m going to personally send you to Odinn’s halls for the Hel you caused me!” said Geirolf. “Poor Torunn has had nothing to do but nag my backside off! I have nothing left to sit on!”

  With a laugh, Rune embraced the old codger, whose laughter carried over the city.

  “Gave us a start, you fool!” Geirolf said with a slap to Rune’s back. He shifted his gaze to Kallan quickly, but said nothing.

  They reached the top of the steps where Geirolf left a pair of great oak doors open, allowing them entrance beyond the vast battlement that encased the keep. Before them, the courtyard spanned out in invitation, leaving behind the chaos of their arrival.

  The barracks to their left hugged the wall and buzzed with the collection of warriors, settling in from port. The sudden chorus of clops from the horses’ hooves forced Kallan’s attention to the right where Gunnar led Astrid, Freyja, and the black mare
to the east behind the keep where the royal stables were tucked away.

  “Where is Torunn?” Rune asked, jumping right to the matter.

  “She has a series of tongue lashings lined up for you,” Geirolf warned. “Be wise and take my advice, Rune. Run.”

  With a smile, Rune clamped his free arm around the old man’s shoulders before leading Kallan to the main keep ahead. A second series of steps invited them to a set of oaken doors, which had also been left open in the tumult.

  “Rune!”

  The shriek left Rune and Geirolf glued down mid-step as his grip on Kallan tightened.

  “Torunn!” Bergen gleefully shouted, intercepting a thin old woman whose silver hair had been twisted into a tight-fitted bun atop her head. Bombarding her from the side, he took her up with a twirl in the air.

  “Bergen!” she bellowed and punched his bare chest.

  Laughing, Bergen planted a hearty kiss to her mouth, before gently lowering her to the ground and refusing to relinquish her waist as she fought him.

  “Bergen, enough! Where’s that brother of yours? I have to kill him!”

  “Torunn!” Rune said, drawing her temper from Bergen.

  “Rune!” Torunn shrieked with death in her eyes and she lunged, but Bergen’s firmly planted hands kept her in place and allowed Rune to make his way slowly toward the tirade that fumed on the steps of the keep.

  “As far back as my old memory can allow,” Torunn shrieked, “never can I recall such a fright! Your father—” She switched to a language Kallan couldn’t decipher as Rune climbed the steps with Kallan in tow, his grin still wide on his face.

  “Next time I think you dead, you had better be!” Torunn finished in common tongue as Rune came to stop before the key keeper.

  “It’s good to see you,” said Rune, still smiling.

  With a huff, Torunn blew out the last of her rage, convincing Bergen to release her. She shifted a death glare to Bergen then settled her eyes on Kallan, suddenly very aware of Kallan’s presence.

  “That’s a Dokkalfr,” Torunn said, still glowering at Rune. Geirolf shifted a glance to Rune, eager for an explanation. “Of all the trash you and your brother have dragged home—”

  Kallan’s blood burned red.

  “This, Lady Torunn…” Rune tightened his hold onto Kallan’s hand and interjected before the key keeper could ignite Kallan’s fury. “…is Kallan, daughter of Eyolf, Queen and Lady of Lorlenalin.”

  Geirolf gulped down a mouthful of bile as the old woman changed three shades of pale. Torunn’s bottom lip trembled, and she bit down while finding the words that failed her.

  “My vassal,” Rune said.

  Torunn shifted her wide-eyed attention to Rune.

  “Are you mad?”

  “She is here as my guest to negotiate peace,” Rune said.

  Torunn looked to Bergen, who nodded in confirmation.

  “Rune—” Torunn lost the word in a gasp. The sharp hiss in her voice was gone.

  “The lady has had a long, long journey.” The hardness of Rune’s face dared her to argue. “She is tired and hasn’t had a proper bath or meal since…” His voice trailed off. “Show her to the northern bower. Have her cleaned and dressed.”

  Kallan tightened her grip on Rune’s hand and he turned.

  “You are safe here,” he said gently. “They won’t harm you.”

  Paralyzed with disbelief, neither Kallan nor Torunn moved.

  “Now, Torunn,” Rune growled, keeping his eyes on Kallan.

  He released Kallan to Torunn, leaving a vast hollowness in his place as Kallan followed Torunn up the steps to the tower. Kallan’s tattered hem exposed the blistered red of her legs where filth from the road had caked to her skin. Her hair hung in dismal, frayed locks that matched the pale color in her lips. Overall, she looked like a frayed cloth that had been beaten and broken and battered then drowned.

  Just as Kallan and Torunn vanished into the tower, Rune nodded to Bergen and Geirolf. “Gentlemen,” he said and flew up the stairs behind the ladies.

  Exchanging glances, Geirolf and Bergen rushed up the stairs after Rune and followed him inside.

  “Rune!” Bergen shouted, his voice filling the Great Hall.

  Rune turned, catching the last of Kallan’s skirts before she disappeared up the great stone steps that hugged the wall on the west side. There, the steps stretched up and around to the second floor and the private chambers.

  “Rune!” Geirolf called behind Bergen.

  The high ceiling bounced his voice overhead. The fire pits in the center of the room crackled and spat between the pair of long tables that were already being dressed for the evening feast. The empty throne remained unscathed on the platform ahead.

  Immediately, Rune fled to the door to the right of the throne, hidden behind the screen passage wall and, two at a time, climbed the stone steps tucked away in the corner as they spiraled their way up to the second floor.

  “Rune!” Geirolf called. “You owe an old man an explanation!”

  Without a word, Rune opened one of the doors at the top of the stairs and stepped into his bedchamber. A lively fire and lit torches filled the room with a familiar comfort. His bed, a desk, a series of randomly placed chairs draped in furs beside the occasional side table made up his furnishings. Beside the fireplace, a closed door led to his sitting room.

  Taking a seat on top of his wide chest pushed against the foot of his bed, Rune unlaced his boots.

  “Rune, what is the meaning of this?” Geirolf bleated, barely containing his rage. “Bringing a Dokkalfr here? Making her your vassal? Giving your mother’s bower to that—?”

  “Guest…” Rune said, pulling off his boot. “And of highest honors. I know what I’m doing.”

  “Your people will not be quick to forgive,” Geirolf said. “You endanger her life by bringing her here. At least house her in the tower where she belongs.”

  Rune dropped his second boot to the floor and marched to the water basin beside the window as he pulled off his shirt.

  “Where’s Borg?” Rune asked.

  “He…” Geirolf thought for a moment, uncertain of the answer himself.

  “Joren would know,” Bergen said, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

  “Send for him,” Rune ordered, scrubbing the grime from his face.

  “Rune…” Geirolf took a step closer. “There are plenty of lasses you can have. I understand your fancy with this one. Once she’s washed up a bit, I’m sure she’s a sight to look at. But take care of your business and have her moved to the tower already. I can have the guards—”

  “Get Joren!” Rune barked, swallowing the rest of Geirolf’s protest.

  Geirolf heaved a sigh and obeyed. Flashing a pitied look toward Bergen, the old man trudged back down the steps to the Hall.

  “Well?” Rune asked, drying his face.

  “I said nothing,” Bergen said, not moving from his place on the wall.

  “But you have something to say,” Rune said, pulling on a fresh pair of trousers.

  Taking up the basin, he sat himself back down on the chest and proceeded to scrub the grime from his feet.

  “Can I safely assume the execution is canceled?” Bergen smirked and pushed himself off the wall.

  “Assume it,” Rune said.

  “Ottar won’t be happy.”

  “I don’t care what Ottar wants.”

  Bergen shrugged. “I’m not happy.”

  “If you have something to say, then get on with it,” said Rune.

  With a sigh, Bergen dropped himself into the chair across from Rune.

  “You want her,” Bergen said.

  Rune frowned. “No, I don’t.”

  “You haven’t left her side in two days. You had Torunn house her in Mother’s bower and you protected her by appointing her as your vassal when Ottar did what Ottar does.”

  “I wasn’t protecting her,” Rune said, looking up from the basin. “I was protecting Ottar.”


  “Oh…” Bergen bobbed his head. “So it was Ottar you were looking out for.”

  “Yes,” Rune said, throwing the soap into the basin and taking up the towel on the floor. Bergen pulled his chair around, closing the space between him and his brother.

  “You took a broken nose from her and kept her alive.”

  “You don’t know what she can do,” Rune said.

  “Don’t I?” Bergen asked making a gesture that drew Rune’s attention to the scar on Bergen’s right brow.

  Bergen leaned closer and lowered his voice.

  “Geirolf is right. You can have her in the dungeons as easily as the north bower. Hel, you could have had her last night when she was practically riding your dragon in her sleep!”

  Rune snapped his head up with full attention.

  “What?” Rune asked.

  “But you don’t want her…” Bergen leaned back in his chair, knowing he had him.

  “I don’t,” Rune insisted, pulling on a fresh pair of boots.

  “Oh, all right.” Bergen rolled his eyes at the denial, exhausted with this back and forth. “You don’t want her,” Bergen mumbled. “Hel, I want her.”

  “Don’t!” Rune said.

  Bergen raised a brow as if Rune’s protest was sufficient evidence for his case.

  “I don’t want her, Bergen,” said Rune as he finished tying the laces and dropped his foot to the floor.

  “Then you don’t mind if I help myself,” Bergen said. Rune rose to his feet and threw Bergen a bored look.

  “She is attractive,” Bergen mused. “Nice hips.”

  “Back off, Bergen.”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “So am I!” Rune said.

  “Alright, alright,” Bergen surrendered, throwing his hand up. “She’s all yours.”

  “No,” Rune said. “Not mine. Just not yours.”

  “Right,” Bergen said, not believing Rune for a moment. “You want to grab a mead? Geirolf just finished a fresh batch.”

  “Some other time,” Rune said. “Right now, I have to stop my guest from escaping.”

  Rune sprinted into his sitting room and to the pair of double doors that led to the corridor outside his chambers.