by T L Greylock
The sun had slipped below the horizon by the time Raef ventured to disturb Bryndis. Her uncle stood guard, his face creased with worry, but he let Raef and Siv pass, then followed them inside.
The interior was dark and Raef’s eyes took a moment to adjust. Bryndis sat hunched on a small stool, her forearms resting on her knees, her head cradled in the crook of one elbow. An untouched cup of ale stood at her feet. Her uncle knelt at her side and pushed the hair from her face, then planted a kiss on the top of her head. With a sigh, Bryndis uncurled herself and looked up at Raef and Siv.
“I meant what I said to him,” Bryndis said.
“I do not doubt you,” Raef said.
“The guilt and the blame will rest with me alone, Skallagrim, you need not worry.”
Bryndis’s uncle put a hand on her shoulder. “Are you so eager to give them up? To let them die?”
The lady of Narvik burst to her feet, her eyes flashing with anger. “Eager, uncle? You know I am not that cruel. But if it comes to choosing between one and twenty lives that will bring me Fengar and countless lives lost should he live, unchecked, then I would make the same choice again and again.”
“The time for such words may yet come.” Raef waited until Bryndis released her uncle from her gaze before continuing. “But first we must know the truth.”
“Yes. Odin’s eye, if Fengar holds no hostages,” Bryndis was shaking now, “if he lies to save his own skin, I will keep him from joining his fathers in Valhalla.”
Raef had been forced to take Eiger with him. Better that than leave him alone with Bryndis, who had reluctantly agreed to remain. The fat man had grumbled about not being informed the moment Stefnir of Gornhald had flown his flag, and he had questioned Raef’s decision to bring only Siv and Skuli on the climb, but beyond that he had kept his mouth shut, no doubt compelled into silence by the exertion required to labor his way up to the ridgeline Bryndis had shown Raef in the light of day.
In the dark, the distance seemed greater, but at last they reached the top of the ridge and worked their way along it until the mountain rose up in front of them, barring further progress. There Raef allowed Skuli to unveil the lantern they had carried with them, the light concealed by thick leather coverings. Aided by its feeble glow, they soon discovered a cleft in the rocks, just large enough for a man to squeeze through.
“Does it go anywhere?” Skuli’s voice seemed unnaturally loud and Raef shot him a warning glance as Siv wriggled her way between the stones. She slid out of the lantern’s light, then returned a moment later.
“Yes.”
Raef turned to Eiger. “You will wait here.”
Eiger scowled. “I am no common warrior for you to command.”
“And yet your girth will not fit.” Raef did not bother to keep his face neutral. “Indeed, you are far too well-muscled and strong.” Siv placed a restraining hand on Raef’s back where Eiger would not see it, but Raef grinned at Eiger’s displeasure. And yet it was the truth. Eiger would not be able to pass into the Dragon’s Jaw. “Keep the lantern covered until we return.” Raef nodded for Skuli to hand it over, but Eiger would not take it and Skuli was forced to set it on the ground between them. Raef tossed the leather cover over it, encasing them in darkness once more, and then turned and plunged into the mountain.
He could hear Siv and Skuli behind him, the worn leather of their boots scuffing on stone as they went, their breathing filling the air around him. The way was narrow and they had no choice but to shuffle along at a sideways angle. Raef kept one hand on the wall that pressed in from the right, his palm gliding over rough rock, and the other out in front of him to discover any sudden obstacles. The blinding darkness seemed to steal away his senses but Raef was certain the path was rising at a steady, nearly imperceptible rate. He tried not to imagine the stone floor dropping away in front of him, tried not to think that his next step might send him plummeting into a yawning abyss.
The passage was straight and seemingly without end, but at last Raef came to a halt as he felt the space around him widen. Though he stretched his arms to their fullest, he could no longer touch both walls. Behind him, Skuli muttered something about the air in the mountain being cold enough to freeze his balls. Five long strides were enough to cross the distance between the walls, but in tracing that path Raef discovered something that chilled his blood more than the winter air. He reversed his steps to be certain, his fingers taking in the surface of the stones.
“A dead end?” Siv’s voice, though hushed, resonated off the rock.
“Worse. The way divides.” Reaching out into the darkness, Raef took Siv’s hand and led her forward, showing her hands where the rocks fell away to reveal three new passages. Skuli cursed and asked if he should return for the lantern, but Raef knew it would not help. “Three passages. Three of us. This is no accident. We are meant to continue alone and hope that blind Hodr will carry us through the darkness.”
Skuli let out a nervous laugh. “You mean the mountain knows we are here? That this is some trick played by one of the gods?” The young warrior laughed again, almost sure of himself now. “The paths cannot change.”
“I have seen stranger things.”
Skuli had no answer for that.
Raef sighed and balled his fist against the cold stones. When he spoke, he was glad to hear his voice remained even and calm. “Skuli, choose your path.” He could hear the other man’s breathing, short, shallow breaths that told of fear. “I told you to save your nerve, Skuli. Now you must find it.”
After a moment, Skuli spoke. “The middle one.”
Raef stepped through the blackness, fingers groping for Skuli’s arm. He found it and grabbed the warrior’s wrist. “Keep your wits. Recite a poem in your head to measure time. Count the hostages when you find them.” Better to say when than if. Skuli’s courage was fragile. “You must avoid being seen by Fengar’s men at all costs.”
“And if the way splits again?”
“Make a choice,” Raef said. “And remember it so you can return.” He released Skuli’s arm but the warrior lingered. Raef reached up to his own neck and worked his numb fingers over the knotted cord that held his Thor’s hammer in place. He had worn the hammer to war, it had seen him through Alfheim and Jötunheim, but he knew Skuli had lost his to a wager before leaving Vannheim. He gripped the familiar, smooth shape in his palm once more, then pressed it into Skuli’s hand. “Take this.” Raef wrapped Skuli’s fingers around the hammer. “Thor will guide you. Now go.”
“Yes, lord.”
Raef, trying not to think about the absence of the hammer around his own neck, listened as the sound of Skuli’s boots faded down the middle passage, then turned to Siv. He sought her out, twining his fingers with hers. He did not need light to know that her face would be tense, but her eyes full of determination. Her hand reached up and touched the hollow in his throat where the hammer usually rested. Raef brought her palm to his lips.
“Left or right?” he asked, his mouth moving against her skin.
She answered without hesitation. “Right.”
“Then I will see you before the sun rises. Now, go.” Raef released Siv and felt her retreat from him. He heard her turn, heard her take the first steps into her chosen passage, and then, before he could regret sending her into the darkness alone, Raef felt out the left-most passage and went to meet whatever waited for him there.
He counted his steps at first, to ease the burden of darkness and pass the time, but it was not long before the numbers turned to words, words spoken in Gudrik’s voice. The story was the same, the one that had always come to him as a boy when alone in the forest. It had stolen upon him then, creeping unaware into his young mind until the tracks of deer and the song of birds were forgotten, and it came upon him now in such a manner, slipping into the corners of his heart and seeping through the marrow of his bones. It was an old friend, the story of the beginning of all things, of the creation of the nine realms, but it was Gudrik’s voice as he had told th
e story all those nights ago that was the greatest comfort in the darkness. Raef might have wished to have the dead skald at his side, but it was enough to carry a spark of him.
By the time the giant Ymir was being carved up to form the mountains and valleys of Midgard, Raef’s path began to climb and the ascent was so steep that Raef had to clamber forward on his hands and feet. In places, the tunnel had been worn smooth and round, as though rubbed away for countless years, and there Raef was forced to leap upwards, propelling himself onward with his toes as his fingers sought something to catch hold of. Before long, sweat dripped down his forehead and ran into his eyes, and the tips of his fingers grew numb as the skin wore away on each handhold. More than once, he felt a faint residue on the rocks, as though they had been dusted with honeycomb. When he raised his fingers to his lips, the taste was of rotten meat, and no matter how hard he tried to wash it free from his tongue with his saliva, it lingered, foul and resilient, and a sudden thirst came over Raef, incessant and as fierce as a storm in summer.
It was only then that Raef became aware that his breaths were coming short and fast, that the blackness before him swam with flashes of light, that he was no longer sure where the sky lay and where the earth waited below, ready to swallow him. The urge to run washed over him but his limbs were as weak as wilting wildflowers and he could feel his fingers slipping from the narrow shelf of rock he clung to, could feel his heart pounding as the ocean does against cliffs. Fighting back the dizziness and the fear, Raef forced himself to swallow and he closed his eyes, as though he might chase away the darkness with the blackness inside his own lids.
The swaying in his head dissipated, but he could not catch his breath, could not calm his heart. A sound came to him then, a sound full of terror, and then he realized it was his own breathing, his own great, gulping breaths, and it seemed to him that he heard his own death.
His right arm gave way first, wrenching his left at the shoulder, and he slipped back down the slope. When the left could hold no longer, he felt himself drop, sliding, tumbling back down the tunnel. With a cry of pain, he crashed against a jutting shard of rock and landed, draped over it, his heartbeat reverberating through the heart of the mountain. And in that moment, he became aware of the handle of his knife gouging into his side from where it lay twisted in his belt.
The sensation of this proved stronger than anything else. Gone was the weakness in his arms, gone was the pounding in his temples, the lights that danced in his eyes, even the thirst. Trembling, Raef reached for the knife and let it whisper out of its scabbard. The hilt was cool against his skin and he could not shake the thought that it was vital he know how sharp the blade was.
The edge bit into his forearm and the first trickle of blood was hot against his skin. He could not see the crimson blood, and in his mind’s eye it was the color of molten gold, thick and viscous as it spilled forth. He pushed the blade deeper, drawing it across the flesh. There was no pain, only a sense of cold, as though the mountain was stealing into the spaces vacated by his blood. Raef lifted the knife and held his arm out, marveling in the curious sensation of blood seeping through that narrowest of slices. It rushed down his arm and seemed to pool just behind the cut. It was not enough. He would have to go deeper.
The blade kissed his skin once more and then Raef heard the scream. Faint, muffled, consumed by the mountain, but filled with terror and pain. The sound of it sent a wave of nausea rolling up Raef’s throat and his fingers fell slack. The knife fell away, skittering down the tunnel, and only then did Raef understand what he had done, that his lifeblood was dripping away and he had been the cause.
The knowledge that he had been a moment away from severing his veins, that he had wielded the knife without thought, awoke a fear that had slept in him since the labyrinth of Jötunheim had threatened to swallow him. For a moment he could do nothing but cling to the rock, the darkness crushing down on him, the fear gnawing at his heart, but then he realized the mountain had gone silent. The screaming had ceased and this was enough to stir him.
“Siv!” His shout echoed back at him and, though he knew it was fruitless, he called again, hoping against hope that he might hear an answer. There was only silence.
Reaching under his leather jerkin and woolen layer, Raef untucked the hem of his linen shirt and tore a wide strip away. Using his left hand and his teeth, he wrapped the self-inflicted wound and fashioned a knot. It throbbed under the pressure of the bandage, but Raef was glad of the pain, glad of the reminder of what the Dragon’s Jaw had cost him.
Mustering the limbs that had betrayed him, Raef heaved himself off the cold, hard flesh of the mountain and began to climb once more. The way up seemed less steep, the walls of the tunnel less smooth, the handholds more frequent. Gone was the sticky residue and gone was the comfort of Gudrik’s voice. Raef could hear only the memory of the scream.
When the tunnel leveled off into a flat chamber, Raef could smell fresh air and felt a slight draft on his cheeks. He knew he was close. The path turned left and narrowed again, so constricted that Raef had to turn sideways and even then the rocks pulled and scraped at him. His scabbard caught time and time again as he made agonizingly slow progress and more than once he caught his head on low-hanging rocks. Stooping, Raef was forced to creep forward, feeling his way forward with his hands and wondering if the his path would continue to shrink until he had nowhere to go, no way to turn around.
So intent was he on finding his way that at first Raef did not notice that something other than blackness was ahead of him, but when he did look up, he doubted at first the faint change in light and wondered if his eyes told the truth. But soon there was no doubt. There, ahead of him, was the night sky, full of stars, waiting for him.
Raef traversed the last section of tunnel on his hands and knees, the stones pressing in on all sides, but at last he broke free, stepping out onto the shoulder of a mountain bathed in starlight. It was a treacherous place, slick with ice and snow, and the steep drop-off to Raef’s left promised a sudden fall and a broken body, but after the dark, blind confines of the mountain, Raef breathed in the night air with relish.
But he was not alone. A figure crouching at the edge of the drop-off stirred, standing tall and catching Raef’s gaze. He reached for his axe, but his fingers only brushed the worn handle before he recognized Siv in the shadows.
“You are well?” Raef went to her, and though she nodded and appeared unhurt, her eyes, solemn and unblinking, told him the mountain had taken a toll on her, too. He raised a hand to her face and brushed away a strand of hair that had escaped her braids, but she caught his wrist with her hand, her gaze on his crude bandage stained with blood.
“What happened?”
Raef met her eyes. “The work of the mountain.” And he told her of the sticky residue, the thirst, the dizziness, and his strange need to test the knife’s blade. “I do not doubt that I would have cut again and again and watched my blood drip from my veins until I could watch no more if I had not heard the scream.” Siv’s gaze flickered back to the mountain behind Raef. “You heard it, too.”
“Yes,” Siv said. “I fear for Skuli’s life.”
“We will search for him. After we have what we came for.”
Siv released Raef and walked to the edge. “There.”
The ancient fortress was open to the sky, the roof long destroyed by wind and water and falling rocks. Among the remaining walls, broken as they were, two fires burned and men clustered to them, but far more men were left in the cold and the dark, shivering, for Fengar had only what wood he had carried with him. When he ran out, there would be no more warmth.
“Difficult to count them,” Siv said, her voice no more than a murmur. She was right. The half walls and tumbled towers shielded much of the ruins from Raef’s view, but it was clear that Fengar still commanded enough men to wage a war, however brief it might be. “They have fresh water.” Raef nodded, for he had seen the spring-fed pool at the base of the cliffs that towered behi
nd the fortress.
“And the hostages?”
Siv pointed, but kept her gaze on Raef, and as he looked in the direction she indicated, he understood her anxious expression.
A small group of people was clustered in the half-light just outside the circle of the fire nearest Raef and Siv’s overlook. Their hands were bound and their feet tethered to each other so they might not escape. Men, women, children, just as Stefnir had promised. But it was the sight of one slight figure among them that caused Raef to suck in air.
“Serpent’s balls,” Raef muttered. “Cilla.”
There was no mistaking the little girl from Kelgard. She held herself apart from the other hostages, crouching as far from them as the rope lashed around her ankle would allow. She had shaved the sides of her head, leaving only the hair on top to grow long and this was tied in three braids knotted together. Her arms were still thin and Raef did not think she had grown much since he had seen her in Solheim, but she had proved to be stronger than she looked during her brief training with Siv and Eira, and Raef had no doubt she nursed deadly anger in her heart.
“Eira said Cilla chose to stay in Solheim. How is it that she came to Narvik and fell into Fengar’s path?”
Siv had no answer and Raef saw that she was watching the hostages with care, though her eyes seemed focused on something far away, something only she could see.
“I should never have left Cilla. She was under my care and I let her drift into a world she should never have had to face alone.”
Siv roused herself. “You are not at fault. Would you have taken her into the dangers of Hullbern and Ver? And the burning lake?”
“No, that was no place for a child, however brave.” Raef turned and looked at Siv. “I will not leave Cilla up here to starve or die under Fengar’s knife.”
“You know what Bryndis will choose. She is willing to see them all die.”