by T L Greylock
Isolf was quiet for a moment. “Had you but shared your plans,” he began.
“But I did not and you acted beyond your right.”
The anger drained from Isolf’s face. “Then I ask you to forgive me, brother, and know that I only did so with you in mind, with Vannheim in mind.”
Raef stared into Isolf’s eyes, still trembling. “I understand,” he managed to say. He could understand, but he could not remain in Isolf’s presence a moment longer and took refuge in the solitude of his chamber.
It was Aelinvor who sought him out as the day turned into twilight. She stood just outside the doorframe, as though she hoped to draw him out. “My father wants to know if you intend to feast the men of Silfravall and if Greyshield should join.”
“Let Isolf do the honors of the feast. I have no stomach for it.” Raef returned to his seat by the window. The eastern horizon had faded into purple and grey. “No, no.” Raef sighed. “I will do it. I will not insult them because Isolf has displeased me. Tell your father to begin preparations. And that Tulkis must be included. He will give me his oath this night.” Aelinvor nodded and turned to go but Raef remembered his promise to Uhtred. “Wait.” Her dress swished against her legs as she halted and looked back. Raef beckoned her closer. “Come here.”
Raef rose to his feet and reached out to take her hand as she approached, then thought better of it. Her blue eyes were dark, an ocean at dusk, and her face half in shadow. Her hair shone in the light of the single candle. He tried to find words that might suffice. “You are a lovely creature, Aelinvor, and any man should be honored to call you wife. But I am not that man. We are not going to be married.”
He could see the disappointment flicker into her face and in the way she lowered her gaze and then, with a swallow, raised it again to meet his eyes. Whatever else she felt, she hid it well, no child to pout and cry despite her youth. She smiled a little. “I am sorry you could not see our future together. I saw it laid before our feet as clearly as I see you now in front of me,” she said. “But a king does as he chooses.”
“Bold to the last, little night bird,” Raef said, almost smiling himself. She bowed her head and left him alone with his thoughts.
Raef started a fire in his hearth and called for a bath. He lounged in the iron tub until steam no longer rose from the water, relishing the chance to clean the grime of travel from his skin. Dripping, he stepped out and wrapped himself in a fur, then poured a cup of mead and drank while letting the air and heat of the fire dry him. His toes curled against the still cold stones of his chamber floor, but soon his lower legs were burning with the heat of the flames and Raef settled into a chair away from the fire to finish his mead before dressing.
The honeywine was soothing and began to melt away the raw edges of Raef’s anger toward Isolf. His cousin had acted rashly, but with good intent, and though he might have to consider carefully what future responsibilities he would trust Isolf with, there was no point in berating the man further. Better to move on and make the best of the situation Isolf had created.
The thrum of noise from the hall had grown loud as the warriors awaited his presence and Raef knew he could put it off no longer. Dressing quickly in fresh clothes, Raef tried to be glad of the night’s events, of thirty new warriors to add to his shield wall, of Tulkis Greyshield kneeling before him for all to see.
The hall came to life at his entrance. The warriors of Silfravall were clustered around the middle of the long tables, their unfamiliar faces turned toward him with cries for Vannheim. His own men filled the remainder of the benches and cheered as he approached the high table and accepted a cup of ale from Uhtred.
“Men of Vannheim, of Silfravall, and of Garhold,” Raef shouted, “remember this night, for this is the night we become a band of brothers. Soon all the world will tremble before our roaring cry of war.” He raised his cup high. “To victory.”
The very air seemed to shiver as the warriors echoed Raef, their voices sure to reach Asgard itself. From the side of the hall, Finnolf prodded Tulkis Greyshield forward. The hall quieted and all eyes watched Tulkis limp to the center of the hall. He took a knee before the high table, and Raef could see the action pained him. Tulkis fought back a grimace.
“See what I have already given you, lord?” Tulkis said, gesturing to his left leg. “A leg, ruined while fighting under your banner at the battle of the burning lake.”
“Yours was not the only wound sustained, Greyshield. Come, is this not what you wanted? To kneel before me in my hall and give me your oath? Speak your words.”
Tulkis looked to Finnolf, who handed him a small knife. His eyes fixed on Raef, Tulkis drew the blade across his palm and made a fist, letting three drops of blood fall to the floor before speaking. “I, Tulkis Greyshield, swear by the shaft of the Allfather’s spear, by the heart-wood of great Yggdrasil, and by the blood of my sons, to live and die in service of Skallagrim, king. May Thor strike me down a thousand times if I am disloyal.”
The oath rang out and Raef nodded in acceptance of it. Tulkis rose and the feast began in earnest. Of those sitting at the high table, only Uhtred was in good spirits. Aelinvor, seated next to her father, ate, drank, and smiled, giving every appearance of happiness, but Raef was not fooled. Her laughter was too bright and her eyes did not smile along with her mouth. Isolf, on Raef’s left, was quiet, and spent much of the meal refilling his cup. Raef could not be sure if his cousin was sulking, or merely trying to keep the attention away from himself. Raef wished for Vakre and Siv but their faces were not among those growing red with drink in the hall and he did not blame them for their absence.
Raef endured the feast for as long as he could and left once there was no danger of insulting anyone. A hearty rendition of an old fighting song had just broken out as he slipped away into the night. He was weary, but not ready for sleep, and his feet took him down the hill, winding through the village, until he reached the shore. The pair of men watching the ships and the water entrance nodded at his approach and Raef strode down the length of one of the docks until all that was before him was the dark fjord.
The night was dark and quiet, the gentle lapping of the water against the shore the only sound to reach Raef’s ears. One of Vannheim’s smaller ships had been brought over from its winter home down the fjord, ready to carry word to Garhold if necessary, and Raef climbed aboard, wishing for a moment that he was out at sea, a stiff breeze in his face and the fierce sun dazzling the waves, far from the reach of Tulkis Greyshield. He looked west, where the sun had disappeared, and saw the sea road stretch out before him, saw storms and wide open skies, saw gulls lead him to strange shores. The dream of such a journey, long buried, reared up, and Raef would have given much to feel an oar beneath his hands once more, to sweat and row and then at last catch the wind in the sail. But the sea road was not his fate.
Raef walked up to the prow of the ship, running his hand along the smooth wood as he went, then climbed up and perched beside the dragonhead, whose black eyes stared unblinking at the fjord, as if it, too, dreamed of the open water. Raef put his hand on the beast’s long neck, his fingers remembering the smooth skin of the dragon-kin in Alfheim, the way the wings unfolded just before flight. They were not much alike, he saw now, the wooden image and the full-blooded creature. If he ever had a chance to build a ship, he would give his dragonhead sunset eyes. The likelihood of that was slim, he knew, for winter was not the time for building ships and unyielding fate bore down on Midgard.
Raef stared out across the water, the blind wooden dragon his only companion, and before his eyes, the dark waters of the fjord began to glow, faint at first, a hint of green. Raef raised his eyes to the sky and watched, his breath caught in his throat, as the sky above Vannheim came alive with swirling blues and dancing greens.
It did not last long, and soon the sky was nothing but stars and darkness, but Raef could not doubt the beauty he had seen. What the aurora of Alfheim was doing in the Midgard sky, he could not say. He could only
think of Finnoul, brave Finnoul, and her dream for the future.
Twenty-Six
The sun, newly risen, shone in Raef’s eyes as he surveyed the bloody scene outside the armory, crimson stark against snow. Finnolf had found the warriors at dawn. One was slumped against the armory wall, the other was face down in the snow. Raef used the toe of his boot to lift the corpse by the shoulder and turn the dead face to the sun.
“Brogund, lord,” Finnolf said, identifying the Vannheim warrior. “He was Thorald’s brother.” Raef frowned. Thorald had been a good captain, his father’s right arm and Raef’s, too, before falling to Fengar’s army in Solheim. Thorald deserved a brother who might carry on their family name with honor and pride, not one who would bleed to death after a drunken quarrel.
“And the other?” Brogund’s opponent in the fight had the badge of Silfravall worked into his belt, a silver stag. He had been stabbed in the gut.
“Lingorm has named him Freyvind,” Finnolf said.
“Do we know what they fought about?”
Finnolf shrugged. “They argued when leaving the hall. Yorkell heard something about a wager. Perhaps one refused to honor it.”
Raef squinted into the sun to look at his young captain. “Be on your guard, Finnolf. These deaths may spark something greater. See that there is no further violence. And get this mess cleaned up.” Finnolf nodded and left just as Vakre and Siv arrived.
“A sour way to begin with Lingorm’s men,” Vakre said.
Siv knelt and pried open Brogund’s stiff fingers, withdrawing a gold ring from his grasp. “Perhaps this was the cause.” She handed it to Raef.
It was a fine piece. If either man had been foolish enough to offer it up in a wager, he was right to lose it. But not so fine to be worth dying for. Raef tossed it to the waiting guard, who snatched it from the air, a grin on his face.
Raef looked to Vakre and Siv. “I do not wish to loiter in my own hall today. Will you hunt with me?”
They rode east, taking to the hills until they reached a tiny lake, a blue gem set among the trees, the shore home to a long, low barn and a single snow-capped house where Finnolf had spent his childhood. The captain’s father and mother still lived there with their youngest child, an eager girl of ten with a fondness for brushing horsetails and tying flowers in manes. Her father, who bred hunting dogs and horses, was accustomed to Raef’s visits and waved from the barn door as the three of them wound through the trees to reach the lake.
“Any good game today, Kolbrand?” Raef called as he dismounted.
Finnolf’s father shook his head. “Nothing, lord.” He strode through the snow to meet them. “A large herd of deer came through yesterday, though. Set the dogs off. Might not have gone far. But with the fresh snow,” Kolbrand shrugged, “could be hard to track.”
Raef nodded and then grinned as Finnolf’s sister burst out of the house. She dashed into the snow, stopping only when she was close enough to press her face to Raef’s horse’s nose.
“Am I to watch the horses, father?” she asked, breathless.
Kolbrand smiled at his daughter. “He has not asked yet.”
The girl turned her large brown eyes up to Raef, who laughed. “What would I do without you, Tolla?” He leaned in close and whispered in her ear. “This one thinks he can fly, so keep a close eye.”
Tolla nodded, her solemn face betrayed by a twinkling in her eye.
Raef ruffled her hair and then went through his hunting gear to be certain he had what he needed before they left the horses under Tolla’s care. Vakre and Siv did the same, securing knives and bows and a bit of food to sustain them through the day.
“You should visit in the spring, lord,” Kolbrand said as Raef checked the bowstring coiled in a pouch at his belt. “The foals will be good this year. I can feel it.”
“You know I cannot resist your horses, Kolbrand,” Raef said, the words out of his mouth before he remembered that there would not be a spring, that there would not be foals to birth and raise. He kept his smile fixed to his face. “We will return before dark.”
Kolbrand nodded and Raef turned to go as father and daughter led the horses to the barn, a song on Tolla’s lips and her fingers twisting a hunk of mane into a braid even as she walked.
On foot now, Raef turned north and they trekked up higher into the hills, looking for signs of the deer Kolbrand spoke of. They found snow, broken only by the tiny footprints of birds, and heard squirrels chastising them from the safety of tall pines, but nothing worthy of the hunt and so they rested in a grove of bare birch trees and ate the cheese, dried apples, and carefully wrapped bread that had still been warm from the oven when Darri, the old kitchen woman, had handed it to Raef that morning.
“Was there snow in the other realms, Raef?” It was Siv who asked the question. She was perched on a fallen log, her legs crossed under her. She took a drink of water from her skin and handed it to Vakre.
Raef had not spoken of his journey to Alfheim or Jötunheim since the day he had learned of Svanja’s death. Siv and Vakre knew only what they had heard in that telling but Raef found his reluctance to speak of it had faded.
“No. Alfheim was in early summer. Everything was lush and green, flowers everywhere. Except for the barren place. There the earth was dry and hard, a wound wrought by giants in a nearly forgotten war.”
“And Jötunheim?”
Raef did not have to reach far to dredge up the sights and smells of Jötunheim. “A dead place,” he said, his voice quiet. “But not winter’s death. True death. The very air was poison and the sun was dull, as though all the brightness had been sucked from it.”
Siv nodded and was still for a moment, the cheese forgotten in her hand. “What was the Allfather like?”
Raef opened his mouth and found the words he was about to speak to be a lie. He hesitated, his eyes on Siv, then spoke. “Old. Weary.” The words were heavy on his tongue. Raef shifted his gaze to Vakre. “Sad. There was power in him, yes, and terrible strength, of will, of mind. He was just as he is in the stories we learned as children. And yet so much more.” Raef took a drink from his own skin. “At least, that is what I saw. It may have been nothing more than a dream. I was not,” Raef paused, “my mind was not well.”
Vakre stirred. “You do not believe it was a dream.”
“No.”
“Nor do you wish you had accepted the Allfather’s offer.” This from Siv.
Raef smiled a little. “No. But I do wish I might understand why. Why I landed on Alfheim’s shores. Why, then, did I go on to Jötunheim? And how? The giants may have a way into Midgard, but only the gods can traverse the nine realms at will.” Raef shook his head. “None of it should have happened. I should have died at sea, swept overboard by tall winter waves, or dashed against the rocks of an unfriendly coast. Or better yet, I should have died in Axsellund. None of it makes sense.”
“Might the Allfather be mistaken? He told you no god had led you on your journey,” Siv said, her gaze flickering to Vakre, “but Loki breathes deception as we do air.”
“Odin knew Loki was the Deepminded. I must believe he would know the truth of this as well.”
Vakre broke in. “Perhaps you were not meant to die.” He frowned. “Perhaps you were meant to disappear, just as you did. Death is final. A body is final. But absence is something altogether different. It breeds confusion, disorder, uncertainty.”
Siv asked the question on Raef’s tongue. “To what end?”
“Rudrak Red-beard and Snorren Thoken might have wished for my absence, but they would have killed me and made the world know it.”
“And Greyshield?” Vakre asked. “Would he have done the same?”
Raef could not say with any certainty. “He might have understood the power to be found in disorder, but I cannot even prove he killed those five men and he has made no overt action against me.”
“Whoever cast you off in that boat may not have wanted your body found, but surely they expected you to die,” Va
kre said. “Perhaps he thought he had more time.”
“And then there was Isolf. No one who wanted the Vestrhall could have anticipated his arrival.” Raef found his appetite had diminished and he tucked the uneaten bread back into his pack.
“And still there are others who might have desired your death but never with an eye on the Vestrhall as a prize,” Siv said. She, too, was no longer eating and her gaze, when it met Raef’s, was troubled. The names were left unspoken but they were loud and clear in Raef’s mind. The Hammerling. Fengar.
Vakre got to his feet. “I do not think we will find answers here.”
They abandoned the birches and pushed onward. Siv soon spotted recent deer tracks that led further east, and not long after they crested a rise to find a herd meandering down a bald slope. The open ground was a challenge, but the herd was not yet alert to their presence, giving them an advantage. Raef exchanged looks with Vakre and Siv, and they separated. Raef crept to the right, taking the steep descent head on, while Siv held the middle ground and Vakre followed the shoulder of the hill to the left so he might get ahead of the herd.
As he watched Vakre drop out of sight, Raef slid down through the snow until he reached a knob in the slope that provided some cover. Peeking over, Raef saw the herd tense, heads up, tails flicking. Their attention seemed to be on something further down the hill. Raef watched, his breath even and slow. At last the herd began to move again, but now they traversed across the hill, rather than angling down into the valley. Raef crawled forward, trying to close the distance to the herd. When he came within easy bowshot, Raef stopped and drew the bow over his shoulder, staying pressed to the hill, and nocked an arrow on the string.
Raef took a deep breath of cold air and let it out, then in one swift motion, he got to one knee, drew, and loosed. His aim was true. The arrow sailed, struck home, and then he heard the snarl behind him.