The Song of the Ash Tree- The Complete Saga

by T L Greylock

  And so Raef told Vakre of Visna and the punishment the Allfather had given her. When he had finished, Visna stepped closer to Vakre.

  “Tyr?” She frowned to herself. “No. And not Thor. Perhaps Njord, but you do not have the look of the sea.”

  Vakre looked over Visna’s shoulder and met Raef’s gaze. Raef could see the hesitation and struggle brim in Vakre’s face, but his voice was calm and clear when he spoke. “My father is Loki.”

  Visna lunged, eyes blazing, hands grasping for Vakre’s throat. Vakre leaned back, surprise turning to feral savagery, and then he was flame and smoke and a flashing sword and it was Visna’s turn to recoil or face death.

  “Enough!” Raef shouted, his voice ringing off the walls of the eagle’s nest. He could not see Vakre’s face, so thick was the fire, and it was a long moment before the son of Loki released the blaze. Even then, the air around him shimmered with heat.

  Visna spat on the ground. “Tainted and accursed, you are. All men and gods know the children of Loki to be monstrous.”

  “If this is so, let us finish it, then,” Vakre said. The flames that had sapped him of strength the day before now seemed to have brought him new vitality, and he stood, sword in hand, ready to strike.

  “No,” Raef said. “You will both have to kill me first.”

  “I am a daughter of Odin, a shieldmaiden of Asgard,” Visna said. “Loki is our foulest enemy and I am charged with bringing death to what he has spawned into the nine realms.”

  “But you are not a shieldmaiden of Asgard,” Raef said, his voice harsh. “You are a mortal, banished from Odin’s hall, and though once you might have cleaved me in two without drawing breath, now we are more than a match, lady. Vakre is bound to me and I to him and you will not touch him.”

  For a moment Raef thought Visna might turn on him, but with visible effort the Valkyrie fought the urge to lash out and stalked away from the fire, disappearing into the dark confines of the bowl.

  “What do you mean to do with her?”

  Raef shook his head. “I do not know.”

  “She is proud.” Vakre returned to the fire and offered Raef the last of the dried meat they had taken from Vakre’s pursuers.

  Raef followed and seated himself on a flat stone. “And she is afraid.” He drained the water from one of the skins to wash down the chewy venison. Vakre tossed him the second skin but only a few drops remained.

  “I will go.” Vakre gathered the skins and descended into the dark valley, leaving Raef with the dying fire. He stood and went to the saddle packs, rummaging until he found the bag of grain the men had carried for the horses. As he gave each horse a portion, he could feel Visna’s eyes upon him, though where she lurked in the darkness he could not say. He might seek her out, speak to her, perhaps plant a seed of trust between her and Vakre, but he was weary of such thoughts, of playing the peacemaker when his own heart was so filled with fury. And so he settled into his furs, drawing them tight to his chin, and watched the stars behind the shifting clouds.

  He thought of the raven, of Odin, Allfather, watching him. He wondered at the arrival of Visna, Odin’s own daughter, banished to a corner of Vannheim where only he might find her. He had questions, questions only the Allfather could answer, but it was thoughts of Siv that consumed him.

  The horn sounded a moment after Raef let his eyelids close, but as he threw off the furs and jerked to his feet, so still was the night that for a moment Raef wondered if he had dreamt it. But then it sounded again, low and long, a single note, and Raef held his breath, waiting to hear the baying of hounds, the shouts of men, but nothing else interrupted the darkness. Keeping low to the ground, Raef crept to the edge of the bowl, scanning the slope below for torchlight and finding it.

  The torches flickered in a faint line between the slope and the river. They were not many in number, but the horn was surely meant to signal others so that a host of men might climb to the eagle’s nest together. Raef thought of Vakre and hoped he had eluded capture, but even so, he was most likely caught between the river and the torches, cut off from the slope and unable to rejoin Raef. Of Visna there was still no sign, though Raef did not doubt that the Valkyrie was watching. They did not lack for weapons and the edge of the nest was a strong position. Together he and Visna might turn the steep final ascent into a killing ground, but they could not hope to hold it for long.

  Raef crouched there, his mind racing, when a sudden movement to his left caught his eye and he drew his axe in haste. But it was only Vakre scrambling up the slope. Raef helped him over the edge, but the son of Loki stopped short, his gaze staring over Raef’s shoulder.

  Visna stood there, a sword in each hand, and her eyes were hard in the last light of the fire. The glowing embers at her feet cast a dull red light across her golden gown, shading her skin an unnatural color, and for a moment she had the look of Asgard once more, but then she stepped away from the fire and the moment passed. She approached Vakre, who put a hand on the knife at his belt, and they stared hard at each other. Raef tensed, ready to intervene, but then Visna was handing a sword, hilt first, to Vakre, her attention turning to the torches that were growing closer.

  “Do you mean to fight?” Visna asked Raef.

  “We are but three. They will be many.” It was possible to escape the nest by climbing the walls of the bowl and taking to the mountains, but the climb was perilous and would take time.

  Visna nodded. “I will fight. And I will show Odin what he has lost.” She hefted a shield that had hung from one of the saddles and stepped to the edge of the bowl.

  Raef looked to Vakre, who, now armed with axe, knives, and sword, was assessing the second shield. It was well worn and notched in many places, and Vakre let it lie on the stones. “You know the way?” Vakre asked. Raef nodded. “Then go. We will give you what time we can.”

  “No.” Raef felt a flush of shame spread through his chest. “I will not flee, not again. I will stand with you and we will die together.”

  Vakre shook his head, his eyes filled with sorrow. “You have much to live for Raef, much to do. We,” he looked over his shoulder at Visna, who met his eyes, “we are outcasts. I do not speak for her, but gladly would I go to Valhalla so that you, my brother, might live.”

  Raef’s legs seemed turned to stone and he could not tear his gaze from Vakre as his mind and heart warred with each other. To go meant a chance at survival and the hope of vengeance. But it also meant unending shame. Raef drew his sword and went to stand at Vakre’s side.

  “No more running,” Raef said.

  Vakre accepted this with a nod and then, as three, they turned to face whatever emerged from the trees.

  Four

  The clear voice of the horn rang out a third time as the torches paused at the tree line below the bowl. But the call was different, a pair of notes, one long and curving up into the second, higher one. In the silence that followed, Raef’s heart pounded in his ears.

  The line of torches moved forward again, passing out of the sanctuary of the snow-covered pines, and now Raef could see shapes of men, though he could not count them. The illuminated figures, night blind by their own flames, had not yet seen the three warriors waiting at the summit, and this lack of caution, this careless approach, sowed a seed of doubt in Raef’s stomach. These did not seem to be men expecting a fight, though what the horn was for, he could not say.

  Placing a hand on Vakre’s shoulder, Raef stared hard at the son of Loki. “Do you trust me?”

  “You know I do.”

  “Then do as I say.” Raef directed Vakre to stand back from the edge of the bowl, deep in the shadows of a pile of boulders. Vakre frowned but obeyed, and Raef placed Visna opposite Vakre, so that they might flank the entrance to the bowl. When they were hidden from his sight, Raef raked dirt over the last embers of the fire and stepped back into the darkness to stand by the horses, hoping to keep them quiet. A soft nose bumped into his back and the other horse blew hot breath in his ear. Raef placed a h
and on the horse’s muzzle, his own breath released in the barest of whispers.

  The figures hauled themselves over the edge of the summit and stepped into the nest, giving Raef his first good look at them. They were perhaps ten in number and their swords were yet at home in their sheaths. The torchlight danced over their bearded faces and one voice cursed quietly about a stone in his boot.

  “He is not here,” one man said. “I told you. He is crow food.”

  “I will believe that when I meet him in Valhalla.” The man who spoke shifted his torch, sending a flash of light through his eyes, but still Raef could not see him well. “If he is not here now, he will come.” Raef did not need to see the man’s face, for the voice was one he had known since childhood.

  “Ruf.” Raef stepped from the shadows and the men whirled to face him, some sliding steel out to gleam in the firelight, but all went as still as the stones they stood on.

  Rufnir Bjarneson dropped his torch and closed the distance between them in four long strides, his arms wrapping tight around Raef. Then he let out a great shout of laughter that echoed off the stone walls.

  “I knew you lived yet, you skinny-arsed dog.” Rufnir laughed again and slapped Raef on the shoulder.

  “It is good to see you, Ruf.” Raef gripped the young man’s arm. “We were making ready to fight.”

  “We?” Rufnir’s eyes lit up. “Then you are not alone?”

  “There is no host of men at my back, if that is what you mean, but I am not alone.” At Raef’s words, Vakre slid from the shadows, earning more than a few muttered curses from the men who had followed Rufnir up to the eagle’s nest, men who did not like to be surprised. The sight of Visna clad in her rich gown drew even more murmurs and Rufnir raised his thick eyebrows. But the coal-haired man soon returned his attention to Raef and sank down onto one knee.

  “Lord,” he began, “my sword is yours, and my shield.” It was then that Raef saw that Rufnir’s left arm ended in a stump at the wrist. He stooped to raise his friend, but Rufnir refused. “I know not what strength runs through my veins, but I swear to you, I will see you returned to the Vestrhall.”

  Raef nodded, then pulled Rufnir to his feet. “Your hand.” He spoke quietly as the other warriors, having uncovered the remains of the fire, used their torches to rekindle the charred wood.

  Rufnir shrugged. “I can still strap on a shield.” There was defiance in his voice, as though he feared Raef might strip him of his weapons and cast him from the shield wall. “I can still gut a man.”

  “When did it happen?”

  Rufnir looked down at the stump. “After the burning lake. The wound rot went deep.” His gaze rose to meet Raef’s. “But I was fortunate. The gods let me live and the healer who took my hand knew his work. Asbjork was not so lucky.”

  Raef bowed his head and closed his eyes. “It grieves me to know he is dead, and I am sorry that I have only now learned of it.” The brothers had been inseparable since the day Rufnir could walk fast enough to keep up with Asbjork. Raef could not remember a time when they had been apart. As boys, the three of them had fought and laughed and grown, and together they had fallen in love with the sea, entranced by the ever-stretching ocean and the secrets that lay beyond the sunsets off Vannheim’s shore.

  “He sits at Odin’s table,” Rufnir said, his voice gruff. Then he forced a grin and laughed. “And the troll spawn is surely laughing to see me now, forsaking the arms of a pretty girl in exchange for the cold embrace of winter and this bloody lot,” he said, gesturing to the men who now huddled around the fire, sharing skins of mead and breaking apart a loaf of bread. Then Rufnir grew serious once more. “They followed, but some more eagerly than others. They did not trust that you lived, or that I could find you. But I knew,” he said, thumping his chest, “I knew you would come here.”

  Raef smiled. “Then I am glad I shared the secret of the eagle’s nest with you all those years ago, though it earned me a lashing.”

  “We have some good supplies, but I did not dare bring more men, for fear of catching the eyes of that red bastard who sits in your chair in the Vestrhall. His men patrol the closest hills for any sign of you or those who might seek to fight for you. I watched him drown four men who were caught trying to sneak through the gate in the black of night.” Rufnir’s sorrow turned to glee. “But he could not find me, no, and I slit the throats of two of his men in turn when they strayed too far from their friends.”

  “The village?”

  Rufnir hung his head. “Much was burned. I am sure the dead were many. In this, too, was I fortunate. I had planned to visit Engvorr, the shipwright, but fate delayed my journey from my father’s farm and I arrived the day after the slaughter. The smell, the smoke,” Rufnir shook his head. “I did not approach the gate and took refuge in a hunter’s shelter until word spread of your cousin’s great betrayal.”

  Raef asked the question that was nearest his heart, though he felt his lungs clench and the words nearly caught in his throat. “Tell me, Ruf, did you ever see a woman with a braid of red and gold? Isolf would have relished her death, would have made certain it was known.”

  Rufnir shook his head. “But for the warriors he sent into the hills and the men he took to the fjord to drown, the gates remained shut. I saw no women.”

  It was the answer Raef expected, but it knotted his stomach nonetheless. He forced himself to nod and push away thoughts of Siv, but Rufnir broke in.

  “The hounds,” he said. “The hounds left, too, with seven men at their heels. They slipped through the gate at dawn, so quick and quiet in the grey light, I almost missed them as they passed beneath my perch above the valley. I waited a day before leaving so that they might not catch my scent.”

  Raef nodded. “Greyshield. He is dead and his sons with him.” Rufnir grinned. “I am glad to have you with me, Rufnir, son of Bjarne. We have much more to discuss, but the hour is late.”

  Raef greeted the warriors who had followed Rufnir. Four were poorly armed, farmers convinced by Rufnir to pull their dusty spears out of the thatch and trek into the wilderness in search of their lord. The other five were hardened warriors known to Raef, men he had fought beside in Solheim and Garhold. All were accustomed to hardship, though Raef knew, as he looked from face to face, the task before them would test their wills.

  “Men of Vannheim, brothers of Vannheim,” Raef said, speaking so they all might hear. They faced him, some with bold faces yearning for battle and glory, others with uncertainty and questions in their eyes. “You are first to answer the call, first to fulfill your oaths, and I shall not forget it. Others will come. Others will brandish their bright swords and boast of what they will do to the enemies of Vannheim. But you, you are the first. There is no certain path before our feet. There is no promise of victory that I can give that would not ring hollow in your ears. I see in your eyes the same fear that eats at my heart. But there is one promise I can make to each of you. All of Asgard will know your names, for we are wolves, unyielding and fierce, and we will scratch and claw and savage until the Allfather himself gazes down on us with his terrible eye.”

  It seemed a feeble attempt at binding them to him, a paltry means of bolstering the hearts of those who wavered, but the response was better than Raef could have hoped for. A roar went up from the men, shields were beaten, spears were hammered against the ground, and the eagle’s nest filled with the sounds of bloodthirsty defiance.

  That night, just before the dawn, stars streaked through the sky, more than a man might count. Silent bolts of lightning split the darkness, and Raef watched and knew the god of thunder was at war.

  Five

  The crows were thick in the morning sky, a seething cloud of dark wings over the treetops in the valley, greeting brother and sister with harsh voices. Raef watched from the edge of the eagle’s nest, an uneasy feeling in his stomach. The others rose and stretched and grumbled for food, but only Vakre seemed to share Raef’s apprehension, for only Vakre had sat awake in the last hour
s of darkness and watched the ominous sky with Raef while the others slept. They had spoken only a little, for little needed to be said. Balder, bright son of Odin, beloved of the gods, was dead, and the doom that came for the gods and all the nine realms was at hand. That Thor had battled his eternal foes while the world of men slept, there was little doubt.

  “Ever does the thunder god clash with the giants, Raef,” Vakre had said, his face flashing white as lighting forked overhead. “It may signify nothing.” There was little conviction behind his words.

  “And yet stars fall from the sky before our very eyes. This is no skirmish. Even now the walls of Asgard may be besieged. Fenrir may be at the gates, lusting for a taste of the Allfather. Black Surt may be setting Valhalla ablaze with his flaming sword.”

  “The end is yet to come,” Vakre had said, sure of himself then. When Raef had frowned and questioned this, Vakre sat quietly for a moment before answering. “There are times when I can feel him. Loki.” Another pause. “He is angry.” Vakre closed his eyes. “Betrayed.” Vakre’s eyes snapped open, a hint of fire retreating with his eyelids. He took a deep breath. “If this were the end, I would feel his joy.”

  Raef had accepted this, not questioning the Loki-blood in Vakre’s veins, and the lightning storm had ceased not long after, but as the sun rose and the crows flocked, he knew whatever drew the corpse eaters to the valley was connected to Thor’s anger.

  Leaving a pair of men behind to watch the nest, Raef and his small band of warriors descended into the valley. The stench that rose to meet them was that of foul and rotten flesh, so putrid and choking that, as they drew closer to where the crows blackened the treetops, Raef pulled his cloak up to cover his nose and mouth in an attempt to blot out the smell. He could hear the moans of those who followed him, and more than one man spit up watery remains of the past night’s mead.

  They advanced in tight formation, though Raef did not expect to find a live foe beside the river’s edge, and, after exchanging a look with Vakre, Raef signaled for the men to halt before continuing on with just Vakre at his side. Here the crow song was deafening, the voices mixed with the beating of wings as the birds swirled from tree to tree. Axe in hand, Raef carried on, pressing through the trees.