Chapter 6 Calder
CALDER
Blackwood Estate, Treland
Calder and Sigvid finally met to discuss his concern about the Draemonium threat in Steinlund. That is, until a pompous man in an official set of robes calls the King and Queen away to welcome the Astrian contingency.
He still has a fortnight before the Skalor meeting, leaving him little to focus his attention on. So today, he perches on a boulder behind Blackwood Estate, sharpening Freyja, his great axe, while the goats bleat at him.
What would his father, Avard, think of his mission to save the Treland Princess? Would it be enough to absolve his sins in Skalor?
The back door creaks open, and he glances up to see the Princess's tight russet curls. Unlike her usual trousers and tight tunic, which she typically wears around Blackwood, she dons a dark green dress that tapers just above her kneecaps. Fitted sleeves cling to her arms.
He halts his progress with the whetstone, hovering above the metal while his cold gaze hungrily inspects her thick thighs. Her heavy breasts bounce in the bodice as she leaps from the porch to the ground.
She grins, springing her way out to him, pausing occasionally to pet the heads of the goats.
The past week has been a level of torture he did not predict when he confirmed with Sigvid that he would stay at Blackwood.
Knowing what curves lie beneath the Princess’s clothes is a memory that shoots straight to his cock. What little he has learned of her is enough that packing his bags to stay at the inn with Edmund is unacceptable.
“Good morning, Jarl Calder.” She greets him with that lovely, sweet voice.
“Princess.”
As she attends to the shaggy cows trudging toward her, he drinks in her figure, relishing every thick curve. “Who inspires your attire today?”
“I have been avoiding some friends after the Trial. But I’m prepared to see them again.
” She makes an exaggerated gesture. “Since my parents forbid me from leaving Blackwood without a guard,” she hesitates, twisting her fingers in that way when she is anxious.
“I hope you will attend to me. Of course, only if you have nothing to occupy your time.”
Will this request damn me to the Abyss? “Who are we to call upon?”
“Two companions I have been training in combat.” She offers no more insight and strides toward the dirt road leading to Toftlund.
He sighs as he secures Freyja to his back, then follows her into the city.
Every step increases her fidgeting until she seems unable to keep her hands at her side. At last, she halts beside a small blacksmith forge.
“Can you wait here?” She mutters without meeting his gaze.
“Use your words, Princess.”
“Wait here, please.”
“Let us not pretend that there isn't still an enemy of your family unaccounted for in this city. I will not allow you to leave my sight.” He places his hand on her lower back and nudges her into the shop.
He recognizes the young man at the forge as the one Sigvid assigned to the Blackwood southern checkpoint, the one whom Edmund knocked out cold. The Drengr cannot be much older than the Princess and hammers a new blade on an anvil.
“Kjarton?” She shouts over the metal-on-metal.
He lifts his head, revealing a short Salt Warrior braid and a large black eye. A Drengr medallion hangs over his blacksmith apron. Realization crosses his expression, and his face transforms into a broad, crooked-toothed smile.
“Miss Aura! Your Highness, I mean.” He stops rambling to bow clumsily. “How are you doing? That Trial was brutal…oh gods!” He stumbles into a rack of freshly forged swords, scattering them to the floor. “Aura, that’s… he is the Iss Drengr!” His voice rises an octave as he points at Calder.
She lets out a loud sigh as Kjarton grips the axe sheathed at his belt.
“Oh, for the love of the Briny God, Kay!” She rips his axe out of his hand and tosses it aside. “Gather your senses. I need your help.”
“Anything for you, Miss Aura.” He assesses Calder with disdain.
The Iss Drengr crosses his arms, envisioning how effortlessly he could break this little man in half.
“Craft me a Drengr medallion.”
Kjarton shuffles backward. “Aura, I understand that what happened with Isabel was irreparable, but I cannot simply make you a medallion. Only the Lady Commander Thora or the King can approve-”
“You don’t think I know that!” She snips. Inhaling deeply, she shakes her head and repaints her face with a fake smile. “It’s not for me, alright? I’ll even return it to you tonight.”
“My Princess,” he steps into her, his hand twitching as if he wants to reach out. “I would do anything for you,” he whispers, “but I cannot risk my job or my life and defy your father. I’m sorry, I cannot help you.”
Calder points to the dagger he is crafting. “Fix the tip, boy.” Kjarton examines the weapon, allowing him to slide his hand along the back of her neck and redirect her onto the street while she seems lost in thought.
Her hands ball into fists. “Father would not have killed him. He likes him better than me most days.” She mutters.
“Aura,” he digs into his tunic, removing the medallion that hangs against his chest. Dangling it in front of her, he leans to her level. “Why do you need this?”
“You wouldn't understand.”
“Try me.”
“I promised my friends that when I completed my final Trial, I would show them what a real Drengr medallion looks like.”
“Can they not see one from any of the warriors in town?”
She bites her lip and looks away. “It’s complicated. Their father was a pledge who died in the Treland War, and their mother died of drunkenness, hating all things Drengr.”
“You can show them mine.” He places it in her palm and closes her fingers around the metal. Her pride prohibits her from asking anyone else to borrow theirs.
He acknowledges her willingness to assist a needy friend and her commitment to honoring her word, which is rare in today’s harsh environment.
She gazes at his Drengr mark in silence. The quiet hangs between them as she remains fixated, slowly uncurling her fingers to reveal his aged medal. The fingertips of her other hand trace the rune.
“Mum and Pops let me see theirs when I was little. Since Mum is an honorary Drengr, hers is a bracelet he crafted.” Her words trail off. “Yet, I have never held one in my hand before. I guess I imagined one day,” her voice fills with emotion, “thank you. Our destination is outside the walls.”
They slip into a comfortable silence as they exit the far western gate, which leads past the Guardian Mausoleum outside the city walls.
The structure serves to honor past Guardians, god-chosen protectors of Treland’s Sacred Stone and its Keeper, and acts as a holy site for the current Guardian to communicate with the Briny God.
Aura relaxes with every stride, relaying stories from her youth, like playing hide-and-seek with Thora in the Blackwood Forest to stealing the Treland Sacred Stone from Sigvid before the annual ceremony one winter.
Like a ray of sunshine, her beautiful laugh and infectious smile touch his heart with a brightness that shatters the darkness that perpetually smothers his soul.
“Here we are.” She gestures to a shack set along a creekbed. A homestead has been crafted around the slanted building, incorporating a few goats and chickens that roam within a small fenced area.
“Wait.” She presses her hand against his chest, her firm tone raising one of his brows.
“They are a tiny but proud family. Serk raised his sister after their mother passed, though they share different fathers. I have worked hard to change their opinion of my family. Please do not say anything insensitive.”
“I grew up in a shack much like this with a single father.” Even the trickling creek and the smell of the chickens unlock a buried chest of nostalgia. “He likely rolls in his grave to know I pledged eternal loyalty to the eldest son of the late King Thord Hilmirsson.”
Ironically, her father damned me in the exact manner her grandfather damned my father, Avard.
Sympathy nearly bursts from the Princess, who gapes as if she wishes to offer sentiment for a crime she did not commit. It is not her fault that his son and wife died at his hands, nor is she responsible for his mother misleading the country with the prophecy.
She searches his eyes, perhaps seeking insight into the life he works hard to keep concealed. He catches her hand twitching toward him before it settles in her curls.
Abandoning her internal debate over how to comfort Calder, she saunters along a beaten path toward the shack door.
Before she can fully raise a fist to knock, it opens to reveal a young girl in dirty trousers and a tunic.
Dirt smudges her cheeks, yet she has a healthy flush to her skin and appears well-fed.
The young girl stomps her little boot as she crosses her tiny arms. “You pinky promised, Aura! You never break a pinky promise!”
The Princess kneels. “I am so incredibly sorry, Eivor. Mum and Pops wouldn’t let me leave the house after the Trial.”
“Eivor!” Someone interrupts, scolding the child. “She can hardly journey to us if she is recovering.” The door swings open wider, revealing a handsome young man seated at a table.
“Serk!” Aura rushes in, and he wraps her to his side while the other arm clutches a twisted staff. “The Trial was not what I anticipated.” She settles into a spare chair at their table, clearly at home.
“Who is this?” Eivor leers up at Calder with knitted brows.
“Jarl Calder Avardsson. He’s a friend.” Aura stuffs a piece of bread in her mouth. “Mmm, is that rosemary?”
The little girl shuffles to the side so he may enter.
He nods and releases Freyja from his back. The size of the great axe is clearly taller than the little girl, who seems unable to tear herself away from it with excitement. He finds a low chair to settle in, leaning his weapon against the wall.
It’ll be a miracle if I can find a way out of this seat.