The Song of the Ash Tree- The Complete Saga

by T L Greylock

  “I think my father, by foul craft, bound the Valkyries to his will, but I think the bond was hard to keep, even for him, and he had to strengthen it by tying it to a life-force on earth. Sure of victory, he chose the Palesword. When Torrulf died, the bond ceased to exist.”

  They were silent for a moment and Raef listened to the fire crackling. Hunger ate at him, but food was scarce. Those who were able would hunt the next day.

  “What do you think Ragnarr meant by his last words?”

  Vakre shook his head. “I do not know. You never knew what caused his silence?”

  “No. There was no shame in his actions, no shame in fighting for the Palesword, fighting for the lord he had sworn to follow. I would not have wished him dead.”

  “You cannot know what was in his heart, Raef. Whatever burden he bore was his and his alone. Do not blame yourself.”

  Siv stirred then, and cried out, her sleep no longer peaceful. Vakre knelt beside her and woke her. She sat up, her eyes still caught up in her dream, and drank the water Vakre offered her.

  “Is it your leg?” Vakre asked.

  “No.” Siv’s voice was quiet. “A dream.” She looked at Raef, her expression troubled. “I dreamed that the sun was lost to us.”

  Raef struggled to his feet and went to sit beside her. He took her hand, leaned back against a stone, and pointed to the sky. “See, a moon that will take us to morning. And the sun will follow. It was just a dream.” Siv nodded and leaned against him, and though her weight brought him new pain, he let her stay there.

  **

  Raef awoke to a rising sun and sore limbs. He had slept flat on his back, for his ribs could not tolerate another position, but the cold ground and his weary muscles had combined to make every bit of him stiff. Forcing himself to sit up right, Raef groaned with the effort.

  “Odin’s eye, that hurts,” Raef muttered to himself. He pressed two fingers to the damaged ribs, feeling out the extent of injury. He could bear only the slightest touch, but it was enough to tell him that two, perhaps three, bones were broken. The wound across his chest was no better. It slashed down from his left shoulder and was crudely bandaged with a portion of ragged cloth.

  Siv slept yet beside him and Vakre was still sprawled across from him, but a slight noise caused Raef to look over his shoulder. Eira stood just beyond the melted snow, a steaming dish in her hands. Her face was blank but Raef could tell she had taken care to make it so.

  “Are you well?” Raef asked.

  Eira stepped closer and squatted down beside him. “I am.” She handed the bowl to him and Raef’s stomach rumbled. “I brought you this. A meager broth. But there is little else.”

  Raef closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of the thin broth. “Did you kill anyone to get this?” He opened his eyes and smiled and was pleased to see Eira responded with the same. “Thank you.” Cupping the bowl with his hands, Raef took a sip and let the hot liquid slide down his throat. “Did any news come in the night?”

  Eira shook her head. “All was quiet.” Raef wondered how long she had been away from camp and if she had slept. They sat in silence as Raef emptied the bowl. “The Hammerling sent out hunters just before dawn. He promises rich meat for all this night. And he has sent others to lay claim to every barrel of ale within half a day’s ride.” She detached three skins from her belt. “I found fresh water.” She handed one to Raef and he swallowed nearly all of it, only then aware of how great his thirst was.

  Raef returned the skin to her. “I should speak with him.” He struggled to rise and was grateful for Eira’s support. But she did not walk with him.

  The Hammerling was not hard to find. He had chosen a central spot just under a small cliff face and his fire burned large. Many men were clustered around him, captains and lords, old allies and new ones. They let Raef through and the Hammerling ceased speaking when he caught sight of Raef. He waved away the crowd.

  “Skallagrim,” he said when the others had gone. He clasped Raef’s forearm and showed good cheer, but Raef knew he took in Raef’s pained posture and the wound that still oozed.

  “Is there news of Fengar?” Raef asked.

  “The coward has fled.”

  “He will return. The war is not over.”

  Brandulf shrugged. “Perhaps. Or maybe he will seek refuge in some quiet, lost corner of the world and we will never hear from him again.”

  Raef shook his head. “He did not face the Palesword. He did not endure the Valkyries. His spirit is far from broken. And there are those who whisper in his ear, tell him he is the only true king. He will return.”

  The Hammerling frowned and Raef could see he did not like those words, did not want to be reminded that the matter of the king was far from settled. “We will speak of that later,” he said, his voice brisk. “Now is a time to rest and celebrate our great victory. You were right, Skallagrim. The poets will sing of us.” This brought a smile to the Hammerling’s face, but there was little warmth in it. “Go. Recover your strength and mend your body. I will call upon you when I have need of you.”

  Raef knew he was being dismissed but there was even more in the Hammerling’s words. He was being pushed away from the Hammerling’s inner circle, soon to be replaced by new allies who had not witnessed the Hammerling’s moments of weakness and doubt, who did not know the would-be king as Raef did, who could not claim to be responsible for the Hammerling’s greatest victory. Raef knew the Hammerling would never call upon him as he had in the past.

  The insult gnawed at Raef but he tried to remain calm. The Hammerling, after all, had spared Raef’s life and could do with it as he wished. There had been no promises made and their alliance had been plagued with mistrust and an undercurrent of hostility. In his heart, Raef knew his father would have done the same, but anger burned deep within him and in his mind he was back in Finngale and he imagined the Hammerling dying upon his blade.

  By the time he returned to his fire, his mind was made up. He nudged Vakre with the toe of his boot. “We are leaving,” he said. “Find Finnolf. Tell him to prepare the men. The Hammerling feasts tonight, but I will not share another drop of ale with him. We will leave under cover of darkness.”

  Vakre met these words with a raised eyebrow but he said nothing and, getting to his feet, went forth to do Raef’s command. For Raef’s part, exhaustion was yet upon him, but rage kept him alert and he brooded by the fire, feeling every slight, recalling every abuse, but most of all letting his thirst for vengeance for his father, long held at bay, soak into every corner of his mind. It was madness and Raef knew it, yet he craved it all the same.

  The sun seemed to crawl across the sky that day as though she was eager to draw out the daylight hours Raef had to endure before he could escape into the night. He shared meat with Eirik of Kolhaugen at midday and forced smiles as he watched the Hammerling bestow gifts upon those the lord deemed worthy. Rings of silver and copper were given to fortune’s favorites and golden arm rings from the dead were dispersed among the allies. Raef accepted his with a solemn face and was told it had last been worn by the Palesword himself. Raef doubted this but said nothing and slipped back among the crowd as soon as he could. The Hammerling himself was thick with newly won treasures. The rings on his forearms were so many there was no skin visible between the shining circles and his sleeves were carefully pushed back to expose this wealth. A great torc hung heavy around his neck. The image was one of a true warrior-lord and Raef noticed the Hammerling’s wounds were cleverly concealed. Hauk of Ruderk hovered close to the Hammerling at all times, a far different man from the one who had ventured into Einarr Skallagrim’s tent at the gathering. Raef wondered which was the true lord of Ruderk.

  **

  As twilight set in, Raef made quiet preparations for travel. His belongings were few and his weapons even fewer. The sword hilt he kept, rolling it in his blanket, and the broken axe remained in his belt with the two knives. The short sword was, he thought, still buried in a corpse on the shore of the lake
. The legendary spear had gone missing in the aftermath of the battle and though it was a mighty weapon, Raef found he would gladly have parted from it in return for the blade that had shattered. He would be hard pressed to defend himself should the need arise and knew he had to come by a good sword by whatever means necessary, though his broken ribs would prevent him from wielding it with any strength.

  A warrior Raef did not know approached him when he had finished. Raef eyed him warily, wondering if word of his imminent departure had leaked and the Hammerling had sent someone to finish him off. But the man had no sword on his belt, not even a knife that Raef could see.

  “You are the lord of Vannheim?”

  “I am.”

  “There is one who would speak with you.”

  Raef frowned. “Let him come, then. He need not ask.”

  “He begs that you would visit him, lord. His wounds are grievous.”

  “His name?”

  “He did not say. Only asked that I search for you.”

  Raef considered for a moment. “Bring me to him.”

  The warrior led him far across the ridge and the walk was long and hard for Raef. He had to pause more than once to calm his heart, for deep breaths sent spasms of pain through his chest and he could feel weakness spreading through his limbs. If fever followed, and wound rot, Raef would not survive long.

  When the warrior came to a halt, it was nearly dark and there was no fire to illuminate the faces of the men huddled on the ground. There was a smell Raef did not like and he knew it was death. Some of these men would not see the sun rise again.

  “Raef.” It was little more than a whisper and Raef could not at first tell who had spoken. A hand reached up to the twilight, brushing against Raef’s cloak. “I am here.”

  Raef knelt and the face became clear to him. “Gudrik.” The poet was injured in several places, but Raef saw the worst of it was a broken leg. Below Gudrik’s knee, the leg bent at an odd angle.

  Gudrik followed Raef’s gaze. “Shattered,” he said. Even this brief statement seemed to sap him of strength and Gudrik closed his eyes for a moment before speaking again. “Is the Palesword truly dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have sworn myself to the Hammerling in exchange for my life. At least, I think I have. Much of yesterday is hazy in my mind. But my life will be worth little to him. I expect I shall limp.” Gudrik smiled a little. “I think it will become me. The limping skald. I shall seem wiser, do you not think?”

  Raef was glad to hear Gudrik had not resigned himself to death. An impulse made him speak. “I am leaving, Gudrik. The Hammerling has commanded me long enough.” The poet’s face registered surprise. “Come with me. I would not like to abandon you here.”

  “Do your eyes yet see? I am not going anywhere.”

  “On horseback. You may ride with me, if that would help.”

  “Raef, you speak of betrayal and oath-breaking and you will need to travel with the greatest speed. I will only hinder you.”

  “I will carry you away from here on my back if I must. You are coming with us.”

  Gudrik smiled again. “It seems I yet have one friend in this world.”

  “You do.”

  The night was dark and moonless. The only light came from a bonfire that burned on a flat stretch of ridge. The able-bodied warriors gathered there, eager to share in the ale that the Hammerling’s men had stripped from Gornhald. Deer and rabbit carcasses were strung up and had begun to char on the flames. From a distance, Raef could smell the meat but he pushed away the hunger that gnawed at him as they gathered the horses away from the light of the fire and any watching eyes. Not wanting to leave any of his warriors on foot, Raef intended to take a horse for every man and woman.

  In small groups, the Vannheim warriors crept down out of the hills. Raef had instructed them to ride west along the lake, not stopping until they reached the woodlands beyond. Only there would they regroup and continue west as a single party.

  Raef sent Gudrik with the first group, in the capable hands of Finnolf Horsebreaker. The pain Gudrik endured as he was lifted up on the horse in front of Finnolf was great, but he made no sound, no complaint, though Raef knew every step the horse took would be agony.

  “He needs a splint,” Raef told Finnolf. “When you reach the trees, see if you can fashion one while you wait for the rest.” The relief for Gudrik would be minimal until they found herbs that would dull the pain and reduce the swelling, but it was the best Raef could do.

  The final group consisted only of Raef, Eira, Vakre, Siv, and five warriors. By that time the celebration by the fire was a raucous, wild affair as warriors drowned their pain with drink. The shouts and laughter and curses muddled together as Raef began the descent, and followed them until they reached the shore of the lake. In the dark, the signs of recent battle were hard to see, but Raef knew that countless dead littered the ground and the snow was tainted with gore. Crows, scavengers by day or night, flapped away when they rode too close. The lake, free of the ice by this shore, was as black as the pitch that had made it burn and for a moment Raef thought he felt heat yet rising from its surface.

  The journey around to the far side of the lake was quiet and they soon regrouped with those who had gone ahead. As promised, Finnolf had fashioned a crude splint for Gudrik’s leg. The skald’s face, though, was ashen and he clutched hard to Finnolf with his eyes closed. Raef sent forth a small vanguard to lead the way and determine the safest path before them. The rear guard, made up of the Vannheim warriors who had suffered the least in the battle, would be much larger, for Raef knew what lay behind was more likely to trouble them than what lay ahead. It was no small thing to break an oath, especially in a time of war. Raef did not need anyone to tell him that and he was thankful that his remaining captains and warriors followed him without question. Their desire for vengeance for Einarr’s murder was nearly as strong as Raef’s and Raef knew they would go to the ends of Midgard, even into the depths of Jörmungand’s sea to see it done.

  They rode through the night, heading west, and the sun rose at their backs, sending shadows ahead of them. Raef kept to his own thoughts as the sun warmed him, letting his grief for his father sit foremost in his mind for the first time since Einarr had made the journey to Valhalla. Much had consumed him in the days since but the grief slipped back over him like a familiar cloak and the weight of his responsibility to his father was welcome.

  Finnolf rode beside Raef. Sharing the saddle, Gudrik’s eyes were closed and he swayed slightly with the rhythm of the horse. Whether he slept, Raef did not know, but he hoped the poet had found a measure of peace.

  “Do we ride for Vannheim, lord?”

  “Yes. The wounded must be brought home to recover fully.”

  “And you?” Finnolf was no fool.

  “It has been long since I have seen the sea. The salt air calls to me. My woodland realm beckons and I would float upon the fjords once more. But I have failed to avenge my father, Finnolf, and I will put that off no longer. I will go where I must, for vengeance will be mine and I must not rest until it is done.”

  “I will do whatever you ask of me, lord.”

  Raef smiled. “I know.”

  They rode in silence, the sunlight sliding through the trees, until Raef’s horse flicked its ears and began to dance sideways. Others did the same, showing fear, but of what Raef could not see, though he turned in his saddle as much as his ribs would allow. The whole party was in disarray and several horses reared up and tossed their riders to the ground before bolting into the trees.

  When the howling began, it was so close that Raef’s skin prickled. The single wolf was soon joined by voices beyond Raef’s count, and though the sun was bright in the sky, the creatures of the night sang a bold song of death. Between the trees, Raef saw the grey shapes of two, then five, wolves, then so many Raef did not bother to count. They circled and prowled but came no closer as though they were laughing and taunting the men.

  The wolv
es howled long and loud as a large cloud slid over the sun, but then their song stopped as suddenly as it had begun and the beasts disappeared so quickly that Raef might have thought he imagined them were it not for the shaken faces of the men around him and the still nervous horses.

  “They did not seem to fear us,” Finnolf said quietly as the men regrouped and continued on. “I have never seen wolves move so boldly in daylight.”

  Raef had, once, though not so many as this. And even the nine wolves that attacked under the sun and left Soren dead had not moved with so much purpose as these. It was as though the wolves were sending a message, a warning of what was to come.

  The grey cloud lingered between the earth and the sun, chilling the once bright air. Raef increased their pace, eager to put distance between them and the wolves and, though nothing untoward occurred the rest of the day, Raef’s uneasiness remained with him. They stopped for the night just as the last drops of sunlight faded on the horizon, chased by gathering clouds that swept in from both north and south. Their chosen site on a shoulder between two hills offered only trees for shelter and when the icy rain lashed at them, there was little protection.

  The lightning began not long after. Raef, his hood pulled down to his eyes as he huddled beside his horse and tried to ignore the throbbing of his wound, did not at first notice. But the thunder sounded, long and low in the distance, and Raef ventured out from under his meager shelter as the storm drew closer. Holding a hand to his ribs and trying to breathe through the pain, he clambered onto a slick, bare, rocky outcrop. The rain pounded at him and so bright was the next flash that it lit the sky as the sun would and Raef felt the crack of thunder shudder through every bone in his body. The sky to the west split once, twice, three times with jagged bolts of lighting and the earth trembled at such fury.

  This was not the weather of winter, not even the weather of the world. Raef knew such a storm was the work of Thor, but never before had he felt such untamed, blistering rage from the slayer of giants. And then, as the sky seemed to break open above him, Raef felt something else, something that echoed his own troubled heart. The storm was not just Thor’s anger; it was grief, anguish, and sorrow.