Fire and Lies E-Book

Angela B. Chrysler

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

War rips across the land of Alfheim.

As the Fae gods draw near, Queen Kallan’s strength is tested.

She follows King Rune, but the Shadow Beast caged within Rune’s body is writhing in hunger. Kallan’s newest companion, Bergen - the legendary Berserk - is determined to end the conflict in her life.

As the three come together, the truth buried in the past resurfaces. Now, Kallan must master a dormant power... or watch her kingdom fall to the Fae, who will stop at nothing to keep their lies.

Leseprobe

Fire and Lies

The Seidr Cycle Book II

Angela B. Chrysler

Copyright (C) 2016 Angela B. Chrysler

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Deranged Doctor Design

Edited by Mia Darien

Maps & Illustrations by Isaac Gooshaw

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Dedication

To my perfect love and dearest friend, my Isaac.

And to my daughter, Emily, who not-so-secretly eavesdropped on the making of this book.

Acknowledgements

Here's the part where I thank a bunch of people for all they've done for me. They know what they've done for me. I know what they've done for me, and you probably have no idea who the hell I'm talking about. Let's not event mention the insane amount of pressure put on an author for spelling this all out because you don't want to offend anyone who feels they belonged in the acknowledgments. As if writing a 500-page novel wasn't hard enough! In this sense, writing acknowledgements is a lot like triage. There are those who just aren't gonna make it—no matter how much they want to. There are those who make the cut, and those who can wait for another book to be mentioned, because word count matters, people! And let's face it, the more I talk, the more the word count increases, the more my readers are charged!

Now, as a writer, I don't want to write some half-assed sappy sonnet that bores my readers (and I'll be the first to admit, as a reader, I never read this stuff). But as a writer, part of me feels obligated to write this all out despite being sincere about wanting to thank certain peoples. But how do I do this without boring the readers, being sincere, and not be too sappy all at the same time? Then I realized, vanity cards! Now those are entertaining! I'm the nerd who always pauses a sitcom to read each and every one of them, so here it goes! Simple, short, sincere, and sweet without losing the readers!

The “I-am-so-grateful-that-I've-put-you-in-a-book” thanks goes to:

Isaac the Husband, who matches my crazy.

Angi the BFF for swapping the story ideas even though you don't read a drop of epic fantasy. Thank you for sitting through my Tolkien Talk while I dumbed down Lord of the Rings for you in much the same way I gave you that crash course in anime.

Every writer has their support group and mine is everyone on board the HMS Slush Brain—Cindy, Matt, Adam, Weech, Stanislava, Stan, Kylie “Kraken,” and Chess! Keep the booze flowing, crew!

Thanks goes to Mia Darien the Editor for making the book beautiful on the inside.

Thanks goes to Indigo Forest Designs for making the book beautiful on the outside.

To my family for your ongoing encouragement, love, and support. Here! I bequeath unto you, bragging rights!

Emily, Daniel, and Elizabeth (the author's children)

Adm, Alicia, Aaron, and Nikki (the author's siblings)

And my parents…all four of them.

And deepest thanks to you, my dearest readers, for coming back for more.

Sink into my books with me.I will show you what I see.

Prologue

At the farthest ends of Midgard, where Alfheim begins, the Fae goddess Fand gazed upon Kallan's fair city. Lorlenalin. The White Opal. The Dokkalfar citadel. Humming a ditty, she collected her skirts and idly glided through the wood surrounding the city.

Like threads of gold, Seidr flowed from the tips of Fand's fingers. It flowed down her gown and branched across the first autumn frost glistening in the moonlight as if the Fae gods themselves had emerged from Under Earth and touched down on the lands of Midgard. Like veins, the Seidr webbed a path to the city. The life she found there was strong, but hollow with grief for their missing queen. Fand called the Seidr back, and she smiled. Memories of the dead never survive the ages. It was only a matter of time before the Dokkalfar forgot their precious queen.

“This won't be too hard.”

Fand took a step and strips of leather wove themselves around her bare foot. By the time she took a second step, she wore a pair of fine leather boots. Her gowns of Under Earth re-knitted themselves into something simpler, but just as suggestive. Just as inviting. The gems she wore to ordain her bodice became grains of golden sand that vanished with the wind. Her cheekbones rounded out. Her pearlescent skin darkened to look more like a daughter of Alfheim than the pale, jeweled complexion of a Fae goddess of Eire's Land.

Fand pushed a hand through her raven black hair, sending strands of Seidr streaking the black and changing it to a pale blond by the time her fingers reached the tips.

By the time Fand stepped into a beam of moonlight where the Dokkalfar guards could see her, all that remained of her original appearance was the stunning rings of gold Seidr that encircled her pupils and the mesmerizing smile that arched her red lips.

By dawn, only two would remember the name of Kallan, Daughter of Eyolf, Queen and Lady of Lorlenalin.

Chapter 1

Kallan gazed upon the six wide longships nestled within the River Raum, its water lapping at their sterns. The wood whined 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 mast of each ship. With a series of ropes, raw strength, and the aid of the mast step, the Ljosalfar pushed the masts upright until they rose like six great monoliths to the sky.

Bergen's men quickly secured the masts into the keelson within the hull as the Ljosalfar collected fresh water from the river, pouring it into large barrels for drinking. Others dumped their weapons and mail into their sea chests.

“Kallan.”

Kallan jerked to Rune's gentle voice and she shot him a look of loathing as he took her arm.

“Don't,” she said, yanking her arm free. She glanced at his wounded shoulder where the stub of an arrow shaft still protruded. Blood seeped from the wound, sending a bout of worry through Kallan. She glanced at Freyja. The white mare, with fur more than an arm in length, pawed at the ground. Deciding to leave Freyja to Rune, Kallan tugged Astrid's reins and led him toward the ships.

Rune lunged forward, snatching her arm and forcing her to stop.

“You know I have to do this,” Rune said, holding Kallan inches from his face.

“Do you?” she said.

“If you go back to Lorlenalin now, Bergen will follow,” Rune said. “He will kill you.”

“You think he can kill me,” Kallan said.

“I don't underestimate Bergen. Neither should you.”

“You are his kin,” Kallan said. “Order him not to.” She felt the amount of desperation that came with her words, and cursed herself for being anything but hateful toward Rune.

“There are certain orders Bergen will not heed.”

“Arrest him,” Kallan said.

“He is my brother.”

“Kill him.” Kallan attempted a stern voice.

Rune breathed deep, visibly steadying his nerves.

“Not for you, nor the gods,” he said. “Not for a chance to end this war.”

Irate with his answer, Kallan sent a surge of Seidr through her arm. Her energy flowed from her core to her flesh and into Rune's hand that held her in place.

Anyone else would have jumped at the pain. Anyone else would have pulled away at the sharp twinge of agony. But the Beast within Rune rose up. A shadow, much like her Seidr, took form, threw back its wolf head, and roared. It consumed Kallan's Seidr, draining the energy, taking it in as if it needed it, craved it, and devoured it. The Beast drank of her Seidr until it disarmed her, and she broke the connection, withdrawing her powers, leaving the Beast unsated and Rune unharmed.

Rune tightened his hold as Kallan felt the bear-sized wolf-like Beast within Rune settle back into a shapeless, silent shadow.

“What is it?” Kallan asked.

Rune narrowed his eyes with a thought Kallan couldn't read.

“I protect you by keeping you,” Rune said. “The only way I can do that is if you come with me to Gunir.”

“I want to go home,” Kallan said. “No matter if you claim I have a choice or not…” Kallan yanked her arm again. This time, Rune released her. “So long as I go to Gunir, you take me against my will. I say again, Ljosalfar. Nothing has changed between us.”

Taking up Astrid's reins, Kallan marched toward the ships, sending Rune into a second lunge as he caught the reins and Kallan's hand. She tightened her grip, refusing to relinquish her horse to her enemy.

“If a prisoner you are, then you can't be left alone with Astrid, now can you?” Rune said. He tried again and, succeeding this time, snatched the reins from Kallan.

Kallan clenched her jaw and, letting Rune have her horse—for now—she proceeded to the ships.

“Your dagger,” Rune said.

Kallan turned back with a fire in her eyes that willed Rune dead. Unsheathing her dagger, she extended her weapon, blade first, as if to attack. She held her position in the time it took Rune to hold his breath. Just as quickly, she turned the blade around and handed it to him, hilt first.

Rune took the blade and sheathed it in his belt.

Again, Kallan turned back to the ships.

“Your pouch,” Rune added.

Kallan flashed a loathsome look.

“You're a prisoner after all,” he said, smirking.

Pouring all her hate into the action, Kallan unfastened the belt from her waist, yanking it free before it was fully untied, and threw it into Rune's chest.

“Are you finished?” Kallan asked, and Rune grinned.

“Hardly.”

“You'll get nothing more from me,” Kallan said.

“A battle of wills, then?” Rune asked.

“To the death,” Kallan said.

Rune nodded as if understanding the challenge as he led Astrid and Freyja down to the water's edge where a lone ship had docked parallel to the shore.

“Your Majesty,” cried an old man with a pock-marked face who waved from the nearest ship. Rune gave a nod and led the horses to the river bank. Kallan watched Rune pull a saddlebag from Freyja's pack then passed the horses to the old man.

Over the side of the longboat, Freyja then Astrid followed the old man onto the deck. As the horses stepped in, the ship tipped high on its side. When they made their way to the mast, the ship moved with them and then violently rocked, forcing the old man to cling to the mast for balance.

The ship steadied and Kallan watched the old man give a hearty pat to Astrid's deep russet neck while ogling the unusual breed that was Freyja. Paying more mind to the white, silken locks of the draft horse, 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, he recovered his balance and tied the reins to the mast alongside a handful of fjord horses and a black courser mare—blacker than the shadow's umbra.

“That is Gunnar,” Rune said as he returned to Kallan's side. “He is our horse master.”

Kallan paid Rune no mind as she watched Gunnar hold a bucket of grains for Astrid, who buried his nose into the food.

“Gunnar cares for horses far more than people,” Rune assured her. “Astrid is safe. Come.”

When she refused to take his hand, Rune wrapped an arm around her back and guided her down to the boats where he stopped at the nearest ship.

The edge of the water sloshed onto the sands as Rune escorted Kallan to the gangplank. She took in the ropes and the tie lines and the grand oak strakes that overlapped each other. Men—Ljosalfar—had taken their seats on top of their sea chests. Others had already positioned their oars through the oar ports. A few were preoccupied with fastening their shields to the side of the ship.

The instant weight of seventy sets of eyes turned her way as Kallan touched her foot to the deck of the ship, stepping down into the first of enemy territory. Kallan raised her face to the sudden silence that blanketed the ship. The cold stares of the Ljosalfar war-men bore down with reminder that, at one point or another, she had attempted to kill each and every one of them. Her blood burned with hate as she slowly took in every face staring back with as much loathing as she harbored for each.

From enemy to shipmate.

Kallan steadied her breath and ached for a sword.

Without a word, she released the gunwale as Rune came up behind her, stopping long enough to acknowledge his men and supply orders. Extending a hand, he directed Kallan to the ship's stern. Her muffled footfalls sounded too clearly over the river's gentle waves as she glanced from port to starboard, taking in each set of eyes that condemned her presence.

With a jerk, Kallan stopped too suddenly as she approached the aft. There, Bergen's bare back greeted her. From shoulders to waist, thin, pale scars, made visible by the sun's light, marred the length of his back, and, for a moment, she wondered when and where he had received such a lashing. Unaware of her arrival, he bustled with a rope at the side oar next to a small cage where, inside, two ravens were perched. One slept while the other was busy picking the fleas from its feathers.

Behind her, Rune closed in, preventing her from bounding back the way she came and running, full speed, to shore. She clenched her fist with the urge to fire.

“Do I have to remind you who is king?” Rune said, jarring Kallan's thoughts just as she finished plotting her escape.

“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 a grin as he moved the cage of ravens to the deck.

“Father always did say mother was too soft on you,” Bergen said, tossing a flask to Rune and intentionally forcing him to catch it with his impaled shoulder.

Rune groaned as he bit back the pain. He pulled the stopper out with his teeth and downed half the flask. Alert, Kallan studied Bergen, who returned her glower with one of his one as he wound a rope. Beside her, Rune busied himself with a swift kick to the collection of furs that had been dumped in a pile against the stern-side trestle where the men had stored the roller logs.

“Kallan.” Rune spoke gently, pulling her attention from Bergen.

“Don't talk to me as if you know me,” Kallan said. “You are doing me no favors.”

“A'right,” Rune said, half-smiling. “Sit down, princess. Help me with my shoulder, wench.”

Rune dropped onto the pile of furs with a groan as Kallan kneeled behind him and quickly went to work, grateful to busy her hands.

“The head didn't go all the way through,” Rune said as Kallan rolled up her sleeves. “You'll have to—”

Kallan pulled her dagger from Rune's belt and the crew jumped to arms.

War-men drew their bows, raised axe and sword, while Bergen raised a black blade seeping Seidr, all before Kallan's dagger moved to Rune's wound.

The Beast within Rune roared, drawing Kallan's focus to the sudden battle between Bergen's blade and Rune's Shadow Beast.

“Stand down!” Rune bellowed. “Bergen, sheathe that sword!” he ordered as if he too felt the fight of the Shadow Beast.

No one moved as they exchanged nervous glances.

The Shadow Beast stood down, but barely.

Rune must be fighting it, Kallan concluded and silently considered how much strength it was taking Rune to hold back such a creature in his state.

Gazing down the length of the Seidr-blade, Kallan met Bergen's black eyes. In a fluid movement, she positioned the flat of the dagger over the arrow's shaft, slammed her palm into the flat of the blade, and drove the arrow the rest of the way through Rune's shoulder.

Rune howled, and the Shadow Beast rose up. Kallan felt the Beast fly toward Bergen's sword, and she fired a small blast of Seidr, striking Bergen's blade. The Shadow Beast feasted, for a moment, on Kallan's Seidr, giving Rune time enough to recover and pull back on the Beast. But, too late, the men had jumped.

A Ljosalfr released an arrow pinning Kallan's skirts to the deck as another mashed a fist into Kallan's hair. Pulling her head back, he pressed a blade to her throat.

“Enough!” Rune shouted. “Ottar! Release her! Bergen! Sheathe that sword!”

The large brute that was Ottar released Kallan. Coughing, she fell to the deck of the ship. A visible line of blood marked her neck as Bergen reluctantly returned the great sword to his back. With Bergen's compliance, the crew stood down.

Taking hold of the arrow's tip, Kallan pulled the head through Rune's shoulder. Rune released a second slew of curses and the wound freely bled.

“Give me a reason, Dokkalfr,” Bergen said. “Just one.”

With contempt, Kallan shoved her blade back into Rune's waist.

“Watch it,” Rune said.

Ignoring Rune, Kallan matched Bergen's scowl as she began tearing strips of cloth to dab at Rune's wound.

“You couldn't use an apple?” Rune asked.

Kallan glared at Rune and ripped another strip of fabric.

“An uksit took my pouch,” she said.

Rune frowned.

With each strip of cloth Kallan made, a ripping sound carried over the ship. Saying nothing, she resumed her work as Rune threw his head back and gulped down the rest of Bergen's mead. The sweat on his forehead beaded as he dropped the empty flask to his lap.

“Where j'you find the cloth?” Rune asked, dragging his tongue through his stupor.

Again, Kallan met Rune's glossed eyes as she tore another strip. Behind her, Bergen led a wave of grins that passed through the ship as Kallan made rags of Rune's tunic.

Attempting to down 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 down against her pile of furs as Bergen flashed a grin that matched the gleam in his eye.

“What happened to your shirt?” Bergen asked, dropping himself at the tiller as Rune examined the frayed ends of his tunic.

“Move out!” Bergen bellowed, failing to answer Rune's question.

One by one, with gangplanks raised, the ships pushed off from shore. 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. The rowers took up their oars and pushed off 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 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, embroidered 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.

The wind grazed Kallan's face and she deeply inhaled the fresh breeze, allowing her a moment's peace. One by one, the ships' sails unfurled and caught the wind that pushed them through the water.

She exhaled, slowly releasing her breath 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 along the banks of the river. Ahead, the land rose and fell with the Raumelfr, moving and twisting with the river as the winds carried the ships.

“You've never set sail before?” Rune asked as drowsiness, pain, and mead took the better part of him.

Kallan startled at the interruption, reminding her of the company she kept aboard her enemy's vessel.

“Of course I have,” she said. “I grew up on the banks of the Kattegat.” Kallan sat back into the pile of furs. “I could never grow tired of the sea.”

With the sails billowed, the rowers pulled in their oars and deposited them onto the floorboards, filling the ship with a collection of clunks and thuds. Stretching out among the barrels, sea chests, and ropes strewn about on the deck, Kallan watched, horror-stricken, as the Ljosalfar men 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 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 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 around 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 met Bergen's eyes and mirrored his cold, dead stare.

They glowered in silence, their scowls saying so much more than any throng of insults ever could. Both held their stance, neither willing to break and 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. A flash of fur and the tip of a tail granted Kallan a welcome distraction as she watched a white ship cat pounce atop a rat.

“Ottar!” Bergen called, suddenly interested on a certain point at the head of the ship.

While picking at his fingers with the point of his dagger, the wide-shouldered man glanced up from where he leaned against the fore trestle. Pushing himself upright, Ottar ambled to the stern. A large scar in his right shoulder flashed as he moved, holding Kallan's attention longer than she had intended.

Stopping over Kallan, Ottar turned his hateful eye down with a cold glare.

“What is it, Dokkalfr?” he growled. “Never seen a real man in that Mountain City of yours?”

Kallan dug her fingers into her skirts and, with all her will, forced her head low.

“That's right, Dokkalfr. Bow your head to your superior.”

Swiping her dagger from Rune's waist, Kallan was up and holding the blade to Ottar's face. Once more the crew was taking up arms, waiting to attack as before.

“Kallan! Sit! Ottar! Move along!” Rune said. “Kallan!”

“Fine,” Kallan retorted and dropped back to the furs.

“You'll end up dead if you don't keep your head about you,” Rune muttered, swiping back the dagger as the crew eased back to their places.

“Let me go,” Kallan hissed. Rune relaxed back into the trestle, leaving Kallan's retort unchallenged as Ottar made his way to Bergen. After a quick shuffle, Bergen passed the tiller to Ottar, who took Bergen's seat.

Glancing away from the side oar, Kallan raised her face just in time to see Bergen unfasten his belt. Heat climbed her neck as she lowered her head and closed her eyes. Anger grated against the resounding laugh that burst from Bergen.

“Something wrong, princess?” Bergen jeered with rich vulgarity. “Did they neglect to teach you an appreciation for men?”

Kallan curled her fingers, wanting to pool her Seidr.

“Give me one night,” Bergen offered in a low tone that slid down Kallan's neck. “I'll flesh out your education—”

“Bergen!” Rune roared as Ottar released another bout of laughter. “Ottar! That's enough.”

The big brute swallowed mid-guffaw and, with resumed silence, governed the side oar as Bergen moved on to conduct his business.

“He won't touch you,” Rune said. Tears stung her eyes and Kallan jerked her face away where Rune couldn't see the tip of her reddened nose. “He doesn't take his woman,” Rune tried again. “That's not Bergen's style. He prefers—”

The heavy clomp of Bergen's boots confirmed his return and, in a torrent of billowed skirts, Kallan rose to her feet. Slamming her shoulder into Bergen's, Kallan plodded to the front of the ship, paying no mind to the catcalls and jeers as she went.

“What did you do?” Bergen asked, watching the wind whip Kallan's hair into the folds of her skirts as she came to stand near the ship's bow.

“I'm not sure.” Rune stared, his brow still furrowed.

Bergen's face stretched into a wide grin.

“You know how to pick them, don't you,” Bergen said, shuffling his seat to the furs beside Rune. Exhaling, he dropped to the floor and leaned into the trestle.

“Why not let her go, Brother?” Bergen said. “She doesn't want to be here anymore than she's wanted here. You could send an arrow to her back or I could pluck her off tonight while she sleeps.”

“She won't sleep,” Rune said as he watched Kallan hug herself against the chill. “And she has to come with us.”

Bergen scoffed dismissively. “Well, of course she has to come with us.” He snorted. “But why take a prisoner to kill on ceremony when we can just kill her here? If she's too much of a pain to haul back home…” Bergen's mood seemed to lift as if an idea came to him. “It'll boost the men's spirits.”

Rune kept his eyes fixed on the fore, watching, guarding to ensure none of his men stepped out of line.

“We'll have lost nothing by killing her here,” Bergen finished.

“There are greater enemies out there with greater happenings than any of us are aware of,” Rune said. “And unless we combine our efforts, we will never see the end of this conflict.”

Rune tore his gaze from Kallan.

Bergen leaned closer as if eager for the moment to speak privately.

“I know you,” he whispered with a darkened look to his eye. “You don't go gallivanting after wenches.” Bergen added a subtle nod toward the front the ship where Kallan stood.” What goes on, Brother?”

Rune pulled his thoughts to his core where the shadow of a wolf-bear slept.

“I don't know,” he said. “Not yet.”

“The least you could have done is let her sail with Gunnar,” Bergen said. “He hates everyone equally.”

As Bergen settled back into the trestle, Rune rose and, without a second look to his brother, made his way to the bow.

Grabbing the mainstay to keep his balance against the jostling ship, Rune came to stand beside Kallan, who stared into the cold winds.

“You can cry if you must,” Rune said. “I can see it. You're trying too hard to keep your head together.”

He ignored the scowl Kallan gave him at his words.

The spray of the sea added to the chill in the air, but neither shivered as if proving their own strength and stubbornness to the other.

“You're as stubborn as ever,” Rune said. Kallan permitted a scoff and gazed back to the waters ahead where the boat's stern cut into the river's surface, pushing its way through the waters.

“You won't even permit yourself a shiver despite the ruthless winds.”

Rune noted the subtle rise of her chin as if defying the winds as much as him.

“They mean no harm, really,” Rune tried again, gentler this time.

“Don't they?” Kallan said, and Rune saw her reddened eyes.

He followed the pale curve of her cheek, to her ear and down the lines of her neck. The only movement was of her hair whipping wildly about. With a sigh, Rune looked back to the river.

“You think you can take me, force my hand, and hide behind the call of guest,” Kallan said.

“Your demeanor is as cold as this wind,” Rune said. “And you are a guest.”

“I am your prisoner,” Kallan said. “No matter what title you give me, I am not free to return to my people.”

“You are not wearing shackles, Your Highness. You are not at the mercy of my men.”

“Then send me home.”

Her plea was not lost on Rune.

“I can't do that, princess,” Rune said.

“And why not? Don't have the ego to spare?”

Rune sighed as Kallan restored her venom.

“If I let you go,” he said. “Bergen won't let you live. He would be more than willing to lead the hunt.”

Kallan scoffed, and Rune leaned against the bow, forcing Kallan to look at him. “He would find you, bind you, and if he felt merciful, his men would only kill you.”

“So what then?” Kallan said. “You claim to keep me safe by keeping me here with them?”

“Not them, princess,” Rune said. “Me.”

“Then accompany me to Lorlenalin,” Kallan pleaded, desperation heavy in her voice. “Let me escort you to my city where I may call you guest.”

“I can't do that, princess.”

“Ugh!” Kallan growled. “Again with that name.”

“Why do you hate it so?”

Kallan turned a cold shoulder to Rune.

“I get it,” he said. “You want to go home. You have your promises to keep and your orphans to feed. But I have a war to end and questions that need answering.”

Kallan gazed upon the river ahead. The wind blew cold, but Kallan stood strong against the chill. She looked on the brink of tears and Rune battled back the urge to hug her.

“You claim I am your guest,” she said. “Yet you proceed with actions my captain would call an act of war.” Kallan turned her full attention to Rune. “You have captured Lorlenalin's queen, carried me from the city while your brother attacked. Your aggression has been made clear.”

“You name any instant within the last moon that I have ever harmed you,” Rune said, “and I'll set you free at the first sign of nightfall.”

Kallan turned her face away.

“No?” Rune asked. “Didn't think so.”

Without a word, Rune trudged back to the stern and dropped himself onto the pile of furs, ignoring the banter of laughs exchanged between Bergen and his men.

At the bow, Kallan stared, still idle and still unmoving, distant and dead to the world around her. As Bergen's men jeered, she gave no sign that she was aware of her surroundings and she sank back into the depths of her mind, back into the black chasms where she harbored the remnants of her iron wall.

Chapter 2

Light from the setting sun poured over the waters, dowsing the earth in streaks of orange and red. With the evening display, the Ljosalfar leapt from their mundane state to work briskly as they welcomed the stretch of their sea legs. After docking the ships, the men lowered the gangplanks. They stored the yardarms, rolled the barrels of water and food to land, and staked the tie lines, harnessing the ships to shore.

Kallan stared wide-eyed from her place at the fore as she took in the rolling green land that mingled with the winding rivers and lakes of Alfheim only a gangplank's walk away. Weeks spent scraping her way through Midgard, weeks spent shut away from the light of day—the beatings, the starvation, the cold lake water closing in, the massacre, and blood baths—everything melted away as Alfheim lay, waiting, stretched out before her.

Wringing her hands, Kallan firmly planted her feet on the boat's deck, lest she begin to bounce eagerly on her heels. The tall blades of grass rippled and bent to the wind like an endless sea of green. But before she could manage her first step, the rich growl of Bergen's voice pierced her perfect moment.

“Everyone helps,” he said, bombarding Kallan with a fresh helping of animosity.

She turned and Bergen slammed a bundle of animal hides into her chest, re-awakening her to the harsh truth of her situation.

“We don't give passage to those who don't earn it,” he said and, scowling, slunk off with an armful of ropes before jumping down from the gangplank into the knee-deep water.

After glowering at the back of his head, Kallan tightened her grip on the furs and followed suit, jumping into the water after him, while doing her best to blend into the caravan. Many Ljosalfar carried an assortment of tents, blankets, weapons, and mead to shore. Others bustled about, digging through the barrels for food. Gunnar led the horses, two at a time, across the encampment and a pair of men rolled a vast soapstone kettle to a tri-stand.

Kallan's eyes followed the horses to a small group of birch, where the horse master secured their bridles. Satisfied with Astrid's care, Kallan dumped her furs on the ground beside the collection of barrels and headed back to the ship alone.

“Dokkalfr!”

Bergen's voice cut into her and she snapped around at attention, daring him to start with a look of detestation.

“What are you doing?” he asked, eyeing her up and down too slowly for her liking.

He still had found no shirt and she furrowed her brow until her whole face frowned. His lax composure reminded her of Rune, forcing her to see the similarities between the two.

“Earning my stay,” she said and marched past the fire and kettle back to the ships, uncertain if he had heard her at all.

With the smallest of grins that tugged at the corner of his mouth, Bergen watched the Seidkona trod to the ships.

Kallan slogged back through the shallow, shore waters. Her wet skirts slapped against her shins, sticking to her legs as she hoisted herself up onto the gangplank. A handful of men exchanged a light chuckle as they tied down the sails and lowered the mast for the night. Keeping her eyes fixed on her task, Kallan dug at the tears that burned from her eyes. Grabbing a bundle of swords, she slung them over her shoulder before Bergen's men could stop to taunt or jeer. A flash of black and tan cooed as it scurried in a flash of fluff across the main deck, drawing Kallan's eye for a moment as she watched the ship cat pounce on a rat. Amused by its game, the cat carried off the squeaking rat, decidedly content with itself as Kallan looked over the ship once more.

Another trip to the ship confirmed the vessel was empty and Kallan bustled about the fire, laying out bedrolls. Only after the Ljosalfar began to settle around the campfires, and the kettle brimmed and bubbled joyously with stew, did she risk slipping away to the storage barrels as far from Rune as her captors allowed.

Laughter flowed from the camp, carried on the wind where Kallan sat shivering alone among the barrels. She pulled the oversized leather coat lined with black rabbit fur closer and permitted her thoughts to return to Ori. The Dvergar who had given his coat in exchange for her health was long gone. Back to the mines of his people, Kallan mused as she recalled the games she once played in the palaces beneath Jotunheim. Ori's laugh filled her thoughts and she clutched her arms tightly, as if hugging herself would somehow grant her a level of security there among her enemy.

Kallan dug with the heels of her hands at another wave of tears that threatened her strength. The scent of rabbit and spice reached her nose and her stomach gurgled painfully. She dropped her head back against one of the stacked barrels as she tried to ignore her hunger. The muted drawls of conversation lulled her deeper into a hateful numbness.

The bodies of the Ljosalfar blocked most of the fire's light, casting shadows across the camp. Their backs were painted black with shadow and night that made them appear as surreal images from the far eastern lands of the Volga trade roads.

The sand crunched and Kallan snapped her attention up. From the shadows of murky backs, Rune walked toward her carrying a bowl. Steam from the contents flitted up into wisps and Kallan swallowed, suddenly aware of the saliva that scraped her dry throat.

“Here,” Rune said, extending the food as he settled himself onto the barrel where Kallan had propped her foot.

With her head slumped to the side, Kallan stared at the camp. The light mood around the fire sliced through her more than any cold shoulder or underhanded slight she had received onboard.

“You choose to starve?” he gently asked, hoping to stir an answer from her.

Kallan sat, unmoving and numb, and feigned disinterest in Rune's company. He leaned closer just as Bergen's boisterous voice carried from the camp.

“Rune!” Bergen's body broke the subtle line of firelight that seeped through the wall of backs. His skin glowed orange among the crowd like a beacon, drawing Kallan's attention to his bare chest and renewing her rage.

“Come!” Bergen called with a wave of his hand, paying no mind to the Dokkalfr.

Rune raised a hand, buying a moment, and Bergen dropped his shoulders with overdrawn exasperation.

“Kallan?” Rune asked, placing a hand on her knee. Angst erupted within, but Kallan remained inert.

With a sigh and a set of slumped shoulders that too well resembled Bergen, Rune shuffled to his feet, and the rhythmic crunch of the sand returned.

Unmoving, Kallan sat, allowing impassiveness to take her, until the discomfort from immobility forced her to move. The raw emotion left her stale with misery. She glanced at the barrel, where Rune had been sitting, and stopped. Steam still wafted from the stew.

Scrambling, she took up the bowl and devoured its contents in a series of gulps. Her belly ached and her bones throbbed. With a stifled sob, she lowered the bowl, suddenly aware of every bit of abuse her body had endured over the past few weeks.

Gudrun's laugh and Eilif's eyes surfaced as thoughts flooded back, of Eyolf buried within the giggles of children and Daggon's face lit ablaze by her flame. A sob caught in Kallan's throat and she pressed a palm to her brow. The warmth of the Ori's laugh echoed in her head and Kallan dropped the bowl. Digging her fist into her forehead, Kallan sobbed until her body shook, she fell over the barrel, and vomited.

Chapter 3

The night air moved in as Kallan lay within her bedroll. She had waited for most of the Ljosalfar to pass out before daring to crawl into her own bed. Rune had insisted she sleep among them. She had insisted she not sleep at all. Rune had compromised by letting her sleep at the edge the camp. She had endured the incessant ridicule and a death threat from Bergen as she settled into her bedroll where the grass grew into the sand.

Kallan lay awake, staring at the moon's crescent and pondering where Rune was among the sleeping Ljosalfar, knowing he wasn't too far away. Deciding she didn't care, she rolled to her side and stared into the dark of the forest.

She breathed in the cool, clean air of Alfheim infused still with the Seidr. Too well, she remembered the thick, heavy air of Midgard. The Seidr had been dormant too long among Men, and no longer infused the land with the energy that granted the elding to the Alfar. Kallan recalled the aged and worn faces of the Men she and Rune had encountered in Migard. They would be dead within a few years. The thought pulled at Kallan's chest and, desperate to force the tension from her thoughts, Kallan rolled onto her back with a sigh.

The loneliness left by the Ljosalfar entombed her, secluding her with her solitude. The isolated company was colder and far crueler than the dank caves of the Dvergar where she had expected no less than the beatings they gave.

From his tethered tree, Astrid snorted, and hope flickered to life in Kallan. She could be home within a day, if she left now. The evening was still young. She could gain several hours before the Dark One caught up to her.

Kallan gathered her skirts and quietly scuttled from her bed. She didn't breathe as she crept along the edge of the camp, timing her footfall with the snores of the Ljosalfar as she made her way to the horses.

Slowly, she reached for the reins and Astrid shook his head. The clinks of the bit sounded like a smith's hammer in the silence.

“Sh. Sh. Sh,” Kallan shushed. Her hand closed around the leather reins.

Just as she moved to untether the bridle, a hand dropped to her wrist like a shackle. Kallan delivered a punch to a face, ripped her pouch from the hand holding it, then bolted into the forest. Bergen's laughter exploded as Rune clutched his nose, wincing against the red that pooled into his hands and the fire that spread from his nose to his eyes to all over his face.

“Stay here,” Rune said through the instant congestion as he smeared the bloody mass on his face.

Bergen threw his hands up in forfeit.

“Hey, she's your guest,” Bergen said between pockets of laughter.

With Gramm sheathed at his side, and his hand still pinching his nose, Rune bolted into the forest after her.

Kallan rushed through shrubs and trees, desperate to find the thicker foliage that could hide her. The rustling behind her grew louder. Unsure who had found her, she fired her Seidr and fled deeper into the forest, uninterested to learn who followed. The unmistakable roar of Rune's Shadow Beast confirmed her pursuer long before he called to her.

“Kallan!”

Pooling her Seidr, Kallan held her curses as Rune came into view and stopped, pausing to catch his breath. Fueled by the rage he stoked within her, Kallan lunged, sending her Seidr ablaze and catching Rune off guard. She felt his Beast rise up and swallow her Seidr, consuming her flame and giving Kallan enough time to reach for her dagger at Rune's waist. In a single motion, she unsheathed the blade and slashed, forcing Rune to draw his sword.

“Kallan!” he cried, barely blocking her dagger.

She slashed, suddenly aware of the hate, the anger, and the helplessness she had carried through Midgard. Kallan slashed. Knowing the Seidr was useless against Rune's Beast, Kallan allowed the raw hate to carry down to her blade as she dove and swiped with her dagger.

“Kallan!” Rune said.

Kallan shrieked as she leapt again.

Pivoting, Rune waited until Kallan stabbed at the air. Swiftly he stepped behind her, and wrapped his arm—sword and all—around her waist. Evoking another shriek from Kallan, Rune slipped his hand into her pouch and withdrew an apple moments before Kallan attempted to drive her elbow into his gut. Rune released her in time to miss the elbow and stole a quick bite from her apple as Kallan re-established her balance, turned to face Rune, and lunged again. The pain from Rune's face subsided.

“Kallan!” Rune said, blocking each blow with his sword. Rune managed another bite of the apple.

The blood stopped flowing and the fire in his face eased. The hole in his shoulder, which Kallan had patched up, re-knitted itself, and Rune sidestepped another blow. With his energy quickly returning, he managed another two bites before Kallan forced him to drop the apple and grasp Gramm's hilt with both hands.

“Fool!” Kallan's voice shook the trees, leaving behind an echo that filled the sleeping forest.

She sliced through the air with unpredictable madness. Gramm barely caught her dagger at the hilt.

“Wretch!” she screamed, springing again.

Rune pivoted, ready for the next attack.

“Coward!” Kallan ended her affront and dropped her arms. Her dagger hung limp at her side.

“You humiliated me!” she shrieked.

Kallan gasped as her body shook with a rage she could no longer contain.

“Did I?” Rune shouted back.

“With your bantering—your coddling! You make me look weak to them!” Kallan said. “You don't understand the position I'm in! They think me weak! They think me frail! And your coddling only reinforces the weakness they see in me!”

“Would you have me leave you to the rampant will of the wolves?” Rune asked and extended his sword arm out, pointing at the camp with Gramm.

“That is exactly what I expect you to do!” she said.

Rune dropped Gramm to his side.

“No.” He smirked, shaking his head. “I know what they would do to you! I've seen what they do to women like you.”

“They do exactly what men in their position are expected to do!” Kallan said. “What makes you think I don't know that? What makes you think that I can't handle myself? That I'm not capable?” She lunged with her dagger, slamming the blade onto Gramm's hilt.” I handle you just fine, don't I?”

As Rune moved to sweep Kallan's legs with his foot, Kallan slid their blades down to the ground and connected his nose with her elbow, re-breaking his face and sending Rune stumbling back just as Kallan shoved her blade to his neck.

Rune froze under the knife, putting an end to their fight.

“Don't you see that we have no other choice?” Rune asked, undaunted by the dagger poised at his throat. “If you go back to Lorlenalin now, this whole thing starts again. More die until no one is left. Is that what you want?”

Kallan maintained her stance, unmoved as she peered through the slits of her eyes.

“Is it?” he almost shouted. He could see her chest rise and fall with each heated breath. “Then kill me!” he said. “Kill me and go home!”

Kallan didn't move.

With a scoff, Rune shoved her hand away from his neck and shook his head. Kallan let her arm fall as Rune turned, wiping the blood from his nose. He scooped up the half-eaten apple as Kallan dropped the blade. Her shoulders sagged and Kallan fell to her knees.

Without a look back, Rune sheathed Gramm and sunk his teeth into the muddy fruit. For a second time that night, his nose reknitted itself and, with more vigor, he proceeded to wipe off as much of the blood as possible.

“Why?”

Rune stopped and looked at Kallan, who remained on the forest floor. Tears streamed down her face as she raised her eyes to his.

“Please answer my why,” she said, her voice hoarse from screaming.

Rune stared, panting to catch his breath as Kallan pushed herself up and forward, falling onto her hands as she called out.

“Why did you follow me? Why did you find me? Why didn't you leave me to die with the Dvergar?”

Kallan buried her fists into the earth.

“And you still don't know,” Rune muttered.

“I was dead for you.” She tried to scream. “I was lost to the Dvergar in Midgard. All you had to do was go home! Take my father's city and win this war! Instead, you find me! You free me! You drew me from the lake. You brought me back here…” Kallan shook her head.” Over and over, when you had the chance to leave me to die, you saved me. Why?”

“Why,” Rune whispered.

“Why!” Kallan screamed. “Please! Answer my why?” She punched the ground. “When this war could have been won and the last of the dying could have their peace, why did you save me?”

Rune's rage, at last, boiled over. Her eyes so like the lapis stone pleaded like he had never known before…as if imploring him to confirm what she so desperately wanted to know.

Dropping the apple, he fell to his knees and, clasping her face in his hands, he kissed her hungrily. He kissed her long and hard, until she sat up and pushed into him, until her fingers dug into him and drew him closer for want of release—until the black eyes of the Shadow Beast flew open and the Beast unleashed a bear-like roar. It lunged for Kallan's Seidr, hungry to reach down into her and draw the Seidr right out until none was left for her and she was only a cold corpse lay in Rune's arms. Rune released Kallan too suddenly, too scared to think what the Beast would have done if it had the chance to touch her.

“That…” he said, staring into her wide, frightened eyes and knowing she sensed the Beast too, “…is why.”

Rune stood, battling back dark thoughts of the beast he harbored and wanting too much to lay back down with Kallan right there. Too quickly he turned and headed back to camp, leaving Kallan there on the forest floor with her pouch.

Aaric raised his eyes from his papers. Cold sweat formed on his brow. With a shaking hand, he ran his hand over his face as if to wipe the worry away.

“She lives,” Aaric whispered. At once, he leapt from the chair in his chambers and took up a travel sack he quickly crammed with a handful of potions, herbs, and poisons.

I'll have to move fast. If I felt Kallan's presence here in Alfheim, there is no doubt that Fand felt it too.

“Drui.”

Fand's velvet voice slid down Aaric's spine. Too late, Aaric turned to the balcony where the Fae goddess perched, lax and cool. He had no doubt why she had come at this hour. Her players were aligned right where she wanted them.

“It's time,” Fand said. With a curious gaze, she looked over Aaric's bag. “It seems you're going somewhere?” She asked the question too sweetly.

“Leave this alone, Fand,” Aaric warned.

“And why would I do that?”

“She isn't yours,” he said. “You have no right.”

“She is Drui,” Fand said. “I have every right.”

“I'll not let you take her.”

“You can't stop me.”

Aaric threw his bag to the floor just as white flames burst to life in his palm. Fand dropped her smile.

“You wouldn't dare—”

Aaric doubled the surge of his Seidr, and the flame doubled in size. The humor was gone from the Fae goddess perched on the railing.

Aaric turned over his second hand and pooled the Seidr. He'd need all he had to take her out.

“You'd be a fool to try,” Fand warned, but Aaric was set. Flame roared to life in his other hand and sleeved his arms as he charged.

Fand leapt down from the balcony's railing and raised a hand, palm side out, just as Aaric lunged. A blast from Fand filled the room, freezing then catching Aaric in an invisible web that drained his Seidr and held him, several feet in the air. Slits of gold made up Fand's eyes as she brought Aaric toward her until his face was inches from hers.

“My kind made you, Drui,” she said. “Your powers don't begin to outstrip mine.”

Aaric tried to speak, but her Seidr bound him inside and out. He was fortunate that she let him breathe.

“You will march the troops to Gunir, and lure her out of her keeper's care,” she said.

“I will not,” Aaric said as soon as he found she was allowing him to speak.

“Shhhh.” Fand placed a finger to Aaric's mouth and resumed her smile as she slid her hand over his cheek then down the back of his neck.

Aaric tried to move, to slap her hand away and fight against the Seidr that bound him.

“You have no choice,” she said.

For a moment, she studied the runes she had etched upon his neck ages ago. They remained black and vibrant, and now reached the strong line of his jaw. Fand gazed into his eyes as if she stared into the eyes of a lover.

“Such hate,” she whispered. “It wasn't always like this.”

“You're vile,” Fand permitted Aaric to say.

In response, she slid her fingers too gently into his hair and slid her mouth over his. She kissed him slow and deep. When she slid her tongue into his mouth, Aaric felt her Seidr strings force his response, reminding him how little he could control. He pushed against her Seidr that froze him, forcibly holding his own Seidr inside him. Only the sick in his gut and his rage still flowed within his control.

At long last, Fand released his mouth and slid her cheek alongside his. Aaric ached to cut out her eyes with the blade she wouldn't let him reach.

“I will march the troops to Gunir,” Fand whispered in his ear. “I will lure her out of her keeper's care.”

He had no choice. Like this, she could puppet him if she wanted to—if it came down to it, she would take that risk. It would leave him no room to run. And running was the only option he had left.

Not without Kallan.

“I will march the troops to Gunir,” Aaric answered.

Fand smiled in victory.

“I'll have the papers signed and sent out at once,” he said, doing his best to sound defeated. Aaric felt Fand's Seidr withdraw and he fell to the floor.

“See that you do,” Fand said, and before Aaric could pull out a blade and slice her throat, her body became a raven and she took flight.

Aaric lay on the floor of his chambers. The clear air confirmed the Fae was gone. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, as if to undo her kiss, and stared into the night.

He'd have no choice now but to march the Dokkalfar into battle, right to Gunir's walls. If Kallan still lived, she would find a way to escape, and he would meet her there. That was the only way.

Aaric picked himself off the floor and returned to his table. Within the hour he had the orders written, sealed, and in the hands of the courier.

Chapter 4

“You look like uskit.”

Rune flashed Bergen a worn out gaze from beneath the dried blood smeared across his face. Silently, Rune trudged to Astrid, passed the horse the apple's core, then found a bowl beside a barrel filled with water.

“Well?” Bergen asked, once Rune finished washing his face.

In silence, Rune finished scrubbing then walked toward the mass of firelight. Bergen followed, falling in behind Rune.

“Go to sleep, Bergen,” Rune said, trudging to his bed.

“Is she dead?”

“She isn't dead,” Rune said.

Matching his brother's pace, Bergen twisted back to the forest as if the trees would tell him what he desired to know. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword.

“Where is she?” Bergen asked. Slowing his pace, he fell behind.

“She's coming,” Rune said, not bothering to look back or stop. He kept his head bowed and continued to his bedroll.

Bergen stopped to search the empty woods. The night encased the space between each tree with shadows that stretched like deep pools of black. With moistened palms, he quietly cursed his unforgotten ghosts.

“No, she isn't,” Bergen called back to Rune.

“She will,” Rune said. His voice was barely audible as he clomped from view into the sea of bedrolls and campfires.

Perplexed, Bergen searched the shadows a while longer. Alone, he stood in the darkness, waiting for a sign that the Dokkalfr followed and not entirely certain why he didn't go in after her. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword and, for a moment, contemplated defying orders and hunting her down himself.

“Bergen,” Rune said, settling into his bedroll. “Leave her.”

After waiting a while longer, Bergen abandoned his judgment to that of his brother's and sulked to bed, plagued by too many shadows to sleep.

“Daggon.”

Gudrun delivered a well-placed kick to the captain's legs. He didn't move. The surrounding forest, thick with fern and foliage, remained as black as it was quiet. Sunrise was still hours away. Even the last of the frogs had ended their croaking for the night.

Grumbling impatiently, she wadded up a blanket and threw it at his head.

“Daggon!”

Daggon groaned back and, muffling her racket with a bare arm, clamped his head beneath the blanket Gudrun had thrown at him.

“Daggon! Wake up!”

She kicked him again.

With a groan of protest, the captain rolled onto his back and plopped his arm to the ground. The firelight flickered, casting black shadows into the deep gouges that etched his face.

“She's here, Daggon!”

Daggon's eyes flew open. He was up in an instant as if the ground had suddenly burned him.

“Where is she?” he asked as he forced himself to stand on his sleep-logged feet.

“Here, in Alfheim,” she said. “We have to move or we won't make it!”

Still trying to re-establish his balance, Daggon collected the blankets and packed the bags, shaking away the dizziness left behind by too little sleep.

“How far?” he asked, looking up from his work as his hands kept busy. Gudrun didn't bother looking up from the blankets she rolled on the other side of the campfire.

“If we hurry, we'll be able to meet up with her. Three…” She paused in thought. “Four days, at most.”

The cinders hissed in protest as she poured a bucket of water over the campfire.

Daggon collected the rolled blankets and fastened them to the saddlebags at Thor's rear.

“Where is she now?” he asked, giving a final yank to the saddle as Gudrun collected the last of their bags from the ground.

“To the south,” she said. “A day's ride from Lorlenalin.”

Daggon snapped his head about.