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Authors: Angela Chrysler
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him on with a smirk. Even her jovial mood felt chafed and cold.
“The rapids, yes.” Rune stepped over a small boulder in his path. “The falls nearly three fathom high? No,” he said. “This landing is the last clearing before we’d be forced to turn back.”
Without further question, she followed quietly, turning to glance over her shoulder in time to spot Gunnar leading Astrid and Freyja alongside the black mare and two soldiers he had recruited to help with the horses. Kallan turned back to her ship, joining Rune in pulling back the low hanging branches as they made their way through the forest.
Slowly, the caravan pushed over the land, filling the wood with the whines of six longships as if in protest of their land-locked state. The late hours of the afternoon sun burned away and, in the early evening, when the men had grown deaf to the incessant creaking of keels, sudden, riotous cheers exploded at the sight of the quiet calm of a glassy lake. Lake Wanern was so wide that the horizon made up other side.
The Ljosalfar rolled the ships back into the water and heaved the logs into the trestles. All evidence of the river was gone. Gunnar returned the horses to the boats and the six groups of Ljosalfar climbed aboard once more. As Ottar took the tiller, Kallan nestled into her cluster of furs and blankets. The subtle sounds of water slapping against the strakes returned and the longships settled as if content to be in the water again.
The breeze welcomed them and they raised the masts and hoisted the yardarm, allowing their sails to billow against the wind. They sailed on through the wide waters of Lake Wanern over the black blue surface. And as the sun settled beyond the forests, they returned to shore, rolled out their beds, pitched their tents, and erected their soapstone kettles over the fire. In short time, the scent of elk wafted from the kettles and Bergen’s war-men, content to ignore the Dokkalfr who welcomed the solitude of a tent, bustled and laughed while exchanging mead and story over bowls of stew.
Inside the tent among the furs and bedrolls, Kallan hugged her legs to her stomach as it churned with hunger. Despite sitting hunched before the small fire she had quickly built in the tent’s center, Kallan shivered. She pulled her overcoat closer and brooded as her thoughts drifted to the night before when Rune had taken her face in his hands and kis—
“Hi.”
Kallan whipped around to Rune, who grinned. Kallan’s face and neck flushed red. She hugged her legs tighter and Rune settled himself beside her. With a bowl of stew in hand, he stretched his legs out in front of him and handed her his bowl.
“Slowly,” he eased as she gulped down the food. “You’ll vomit.”
With a final gulp, she handed the bowl back to Rune and hugged herself against the cold while staring into the fire.
“Thank you,” she said, sending a warm surge through Rune that relaxed him as he set the bowl down beside the fire.
In silence, they stared at the flames. Almost enjoying each other’s company.
“The temperature is dropping fast,” Rune said.
Kallan kept hugging her legs as Rune looked away, feigning interest in the tent’s wall. He inhaled deeply, held his breath, and braced for impact before speaking again.
“We’ll be sharing packs tonight.”
Kallan stiffened as her face burned three shades of red.
“Everyone,” Rune said, “to keep warm.”
Before she could begin her protests, Rune was up and making his way to his bedroll.
“I will not!” she exclaimed.
“It’ll be cold,” Rune warned, dropping himself onto his claimed bed and unlacing his boots.
Kallan frowned. “I survived Jotunheim. I can survive this.”
With a hearty chuckle, Rune kicked his boots aside and slid in between his pile of furs and blankets. Still chuckling, he relaxed onto his back and laid his arm nonchalantly over his eyes in mock sleep.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
Rune grinned.
“You
“The rapids, yes.” Rune stepped over a small boulder in his path. “The falls nearly three fathom high? No,” he said. “This landing is the last clearing before we’d be forced to turn back.”
Without further question, she followed quietly, turning to glance over her shoulder in time to spot Gunnar leading Astrid and Freyja alongside the black mare and two soldiers he had recruited to help with the horses. Kallan turned back to her ship, joining Rune in pulling back the low hanging branches as they made their way through the forest.
Slowly, the caravan pushed over the land, filling the wood with the whines of six longships as if in protest of their land-locked state. The late hours of the afternoon sun burned away and, in the early evening, when the men had grown deaf to the incessant creaking of keels, sudden, riotous cheers exploded at the sight of the quiet calm of a glassy lake. Lake Wanern was so wide that the horizon made up other side.
The Ljosalfar rolled the ships back into the water and heaved the logs into the trestles. All evidence of the river was gone. Gunnar returned the horses to the boats and the six groups of Ljosalfar climbed aboard once more. As Ottar took the tiller, Kallan nestled into her cluster of furs and blankets. The subtle sounds of water slapping against the strakes returned and the longships settled as if content to be in the water again.
The breeze welcomed them and they raised the masts and hoisted the yardarm, allowing their sails to billow against the wind. They sailed on through the wide waters of Lake Wanern over the black blue surface. And as the sun settled beyond the forests, they returned to shore, rolled out their beds, pitched their tents, and erected their soapstone kettles over the fire. In short time, the scent of elk wafted from the kettles and Bergen’s war-men, content to ignore the Dokkalfr who welcomed the solitude of a tent, bustled and laughed while exchanging mead and story over bowls of stew.
Inside the tent among the furs and bedrolls, Kallan hugged her legs to her stomach as it churned with hunger. Despite sitting hunched before the small fire she had quickly built in the tent’s center, Kallan shivered. She pulled her overcoat closer and brooded as her thoughts drifted to the night before when Rune had taken her face in his hands and kis—
“Hi.”
Kallan whipped around to Rune, who grinned. Kallan’s face and neck flushed red. She hugged her legs tighter and Rune settled himself beside her. With a bowl of stew in hand, he stretched his legs out in front of him and handed her his bowl.
“Slowly,” he eased as she gulped down the food. “You’ll vomit.”
With a final gulp, she handed the bowl back to Rune and hugged herself against the cold while staring into the fire.
“Thank you,” she said, sending a warm surge through Rune that relaxed him as he set the bowl down beside the fire.
In silence, they stared at the flames. Almost enjoying each other’s company.
“The temperature is dropping fast,” Rune said.
Kallan kept hugging her legs as Rune looked away, feigning interest in the tent’s wall. He inhaled deeply, held his breath, and braced for impact before speaking again.
“We’ll be sharing packs tonight.”
Kallan stiffened as her face burned three shades of red.
“Everyone,” Rune said, “to keep warm.”
Before she could begin her protests, Rune was up and making his way to his bedroll.
“I will not!” she exclaimed.
“It’ll be cold,” Rune warned, dropping himself onto his claimed bed and unlacing his boots.
Kallan frowned. “I survived Jotunheim. I can survive this.”
With a hearty chuckle, Rune kicked his boots aside and slid in between his pile of furs and blankets. Still chuckling, he relaxed onto his back and laid his arm nonchalantly over his eyes in mock sleep.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
Rune grinned.
“You
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