Fire And Lies

Chapter 2

Chapter 2Light 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 m******e, 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.