by T L Greylock
“That is mine.”
“And yet you left it, forgotten, abandoned,” Vakre said. Raef did not release his grip on the sword.
Visna flinched at Vakre’s accusation. “It is mine by right.” She stared hard at the sword. “And mine to part with.”
Raef pried the sword from her grip and eased the blade out of the scabbard. The steel was dark and rippled with shadows. “I saw you wield a sword of sunlight, bright and blazing and hard to look upon. There is not a spark of light here.”
Visna was pale now and her voice scarcely more than a whisper. “No. Nor will there be until it is claimed by the right hand.” Her hand shook as she reached out for the sword. Raef let her take it. The steel remained dull and Raef saw a glimmer of hope fade in Visna’s eyes. When she spoke again, her voice was flat. “This is the sword of a Valkyrie. Once it was mine and once I looked upon the faces of men and chose who would die by its edge. I can no longer remember their faces.” She sheathed the sword. “My father has given me a final task.” Visna looked from Raef to Vakre and back again. “There must be nine. Nine Valkyries riding the storm clouds, nine streaking to the battlefield, nine at the Allfather’s side.”
Visna let out a sharp laugh and cast her gaze to the sky. “Is this your final punishment, Father? That I must seek out and discover she who will replace me? That I must hand over the weapon that exists as a part of me, a limb, an eye, a piece of my heart? That I alone must sever the last link to the life I have known?” Tears spilled onto Visna’s cheeks and she did not attempt to hide them. “I would curse you if I knew how, Father, but I do not have the words for there is only love in my heart for you. And that is the hardest thing of all. I want to hate you, but I cannot.” Visna stared at the stars for a moment longer and then let the sword fall to the ground. She looked at Raef through tear-laden eyes, her face more open and honest than he had ever seen it, then turned and left the fire’s light. When she returned at dawn, she was cold and hard and would not speak of the sword
For five days and five nights, Raef kept his vigil in the eagle’s nest, each day wearing longer than the last as his uneasy, guarded companions circled around him in a tangle of unspoken threats. On the sixth day, they were no longer alone.
Six
There was no banner, no horns, and few enough men, Raef could see, even from his high vantage point. They had come not long after the sunlight had cascaded into the valley, spilling over the snow-covered trees with a golden glow that reminded Raef of summer. The icy air that nipped at his ears and reddened his cheeks banished those warm thoughts as Raef caught sight of the men that came from the east, following in the footsteps of the sun. They might have passed under the nest and reached the edge of the fjord unnoticed were it not for a bare patch of open land just east of the nest that grazed the shore of the river. It was there that Raef spotted them by chance, catching the glint of sunlight on something that was not water, tree, rock, or snow.
A quick word to Tuli and their fire, hissing and spitting in protest, was smothered, sending a spiral of smoke skyward that was soon lost in the blue. Vakre stepped to Raef’s side as the men reached the end of the bare land and disappeared once more into the trees.
“Yours?” Vakre asked, his eyes not leaving the valley, searching always for the next sighting.
“Perhaps.”
They waited in strained silence, hearing nothing but the river rushing over rocks and the faint calls between birds. At last Raef could stand it no longer.
“If they were mine, they would be here, not skulking among the trees.” Raef retreated from the overlook and retrieved his scabbard, then slid his axe into his belt on his left hip next to the long knife that already lay there. Vakre armed himself as well and Visna began to do the same, but Raef stopped the Valkyrie before she reached her borrowed sword.
“Stay. Keep watch for others.” Visna began to protest but Raef was in no mood to hear it. He turned and climbed over the side of the nest, leaving the Valkyrie to sulk.
“Will she listen?” Vakre asked as he followed Raef down the slope.
“Unlikely.”
They reached the tree line and slowed their descent as they headed for the river. The woods around them were quiet and still, the snow marked only by the prints of small animals and a few deer, and they, after passing by the melted snow and scorched ground where Vakre had burned the giant’s corpse, reached the river without sight or sound of the party of men. Raef turned east, following the riverbank, and now they walked with great care, keeping close to the thickest bushes and branches to avoid unwanted eyes.
“Do you hear that?” Vakre asked, frozen in his tracks. Raef stopped and strained to listen. There, the sound of voices, one first, dim and distant, then others joining in. Raef crouched and crept onward.
The men were gathered at the river’s edge, clustered among slender birch trees and sturdy oaks. Some held the reins of horses and were heavily armed, others carried only spears and shields, once painted, now worn to dull reds and yellows and chipped black.
Raef nodded to Vakre and the son of Loki slipped through the trees to circle around the clearing and get a full count of the warriors. Raef, his view barred by snow-laden pine branches, ducked low and crawled closer, eager to glimpse the faces of those who trespassed so close to the eagle’s nest.
One man still sat in his saddle, his horse hemmed in by the others, and he was speaking, though the river water carried away the sound of his voice. With a tug of the reins, he turned the horse and dismounted and Raef sucked in breath at the sight of his face. Fengar, lord of Solheim and the would-be king, had come to Vannheim.
Vakre reappeared at Raef’s side and whispered that he counted forty-three men but some were there against their will, bound at the wrist by ropes. The crowd parted as one of these captives was pushed forward by a man of ancient face and hunched back. A black crow’s feather was tied in the old man’s white hair and a pair of pale medallions that hung from his neck rattled against each other as he prodded the prisoner toward Fengar. The old man delivered a sharp rap to the prisoner’s shoulder with a stout shaft, sending him to his knees.
“This one, lord,” the old man said.
War had changed Fengar. When first Raef had seen the would-be king, Fengar’s face had been open, almost friendly, the face of a man surprised to be named king. Later, he had gained a measure of confidence and poise, as if he were beginning to believe in the fate that had swelled up around him. Now his cheekbones were more pronounced, his eyes less bright, his whole posture closed off and wary. He eyed the man at his feet with obvious distaste, but he was no warmer toward the old man and Raef sensed Fengar would be rid of both if he could.
Fengar said something too quiet for Raef to hear, but the old man’s reaction spoke loud enough for both.
“The gods do not bestow victory upon cowards. You have lost their favor, Fengar. We must win it back.”
“With this man’s blood?” Fengar’s voice rose but held no conviction. “What is this man to Odin Allfather, or to Thor?”
“Does the Hammerling shrink from such duties? Does he fear the necessary sacrifices? A skinny winter rabbit is no longer enough.” Though bent and brittle, the old man spoke with utter belief.
Fengar scowled and Raef could see his nostrils flare, but whether it was from anger at the old man or at the mention of his rival, the Hammerling, Raef could not say. Perhaps both. “Do it.” The words were uttered through clenched teeth and Fengar turned away and pushed through the men until he reached the riverbank.
The old man took no joy in Fengar’s decision, but grabbed the prisoner’s cloak with a bony hand and pulled, forcing the man to scramble after him on hands and knees. The gathered men spread out, giving the old man a clear path to the closest tree, their eyes watching every move with nervous anticipation. Two other bound men and one woman cowered as the old man passed them by, but they might have been worms in the dirt for all the attention he gave them. He gave a sharp whistle, summoning
a beardless boy, and together they stripped the captive to the waist and lashed him to the tree, arms stretched wide to echo the shape of the oak’s branches. Without a word, the old man pulled a small knife and skewered the man’s left hand to the bark. The shriek pierced the uneasy silence and the old man stepped back as though to admire his work. The boy produced another knife, this one long and lean and set in a bone handle. The old man took it and, with a few muttered words that Raef could not make out, stepped close to the shivering, sobbing prisoner and began to carve into his pale belly. The sobs turned to moans and screams and then the air was filled with the smell of piss and shit.
In a moment, the prisoner’s head sank to his chest, though Raef could see his eyelids fluttered still, and the old man went on with his work with precision. The warriors watched with horror and fascination etched on their faces. Fengar kept his back to the bloody sacrifice.
When the old man had finished, the captive was dead, his entrails strung up around him, the ravaged belly a mass of mutilated, bloody flesh. With a last flick of his knife, the old man cut a lock of hair from the dead man, held it to his nose, then tied it next to one of the medallions that hung from his neck. Raef saw then that the fresh strand of hair was not alone and the medallions were smooth, worn bone.
Only then did Fengar turn and survey what had been done and Raef saw him lick his lips and swallow at the display before him. “What now, Griva? Will Odin himself descend from Asgard and fight alongside me?” There was mockery in Fengar’s voice and face, but a sharp look from Griva sent it fleeing, leaving only weariness behind. “Let us be gone from this place,” Fengar said, his gaze roaming back to the river and the trees on the far shore. “I do not like it here.”
“No,” Griva said, and though Fengar had returned to his horse, it was the old man whose voice commanded the warriors. Not a single one stirred and all watched Griva, who was assessing his sacrifice. He traced a finger along the dead man’s chest until he reached the savaged belly, then he touched the lock of hair he had taken, his mouth forming silent words. “This is a good place. We must stay.”
Fengar looked as though he wanted to argue, but something made him hold his tongue. “Very well.” The king summoned a warrior to his side. “Send out riders so the others might find us. We will await them here.” Now the warriors surged to life, and soon they separated, two returning to the east on fleet-footed horses, the rest surging further along the river in search of decent ground to make camp. Raef and Vakre drew back into the trees and underbrush and waited until they had passed from sight, then followed at a distance.
A spot was chosen close to where the river spilled into the fjord and it was not long before the smell of charred wood brought curious men to the place where the giant had fallen from Jötunheim. One by one they filtered through the trees until Fengar’s entire host stood in the clearing. Raef and Vakre watched from higher ground. The clearing was free from snow and scorched where Vakre had set his blaze. Nothing remained of the corpse and the only sign of violence was the trees splintered by the giant’s limbs. Fengar’s men muttered to each other and a few reached out to touch the Thor hammers that hung from their necks, eying those around them to see if they did so alone.
“A lightning strike.” Griva seemed sure of himself and the men agreed, some with quick laughs and crude jokes to shake off the nerves that had sent them reaching for their amulets.
Fengar ordered the men back to the river to set up shelters, but they had gone only a few steps when shouts rang out and swords were drawn. In the confusion, Raef could not see what had caused the commotion, but then, with a sharp word from Fengar, the warriors went still, giving Raef a better view. Beside him, Vakre swore under his breath.
Visna stood at the edge of the clearing, her arm wrapped tight around Griva’s chest, her sword pressed against his long, thin neck. The old man did not struggle and his face was calm.
“Your skald dies if any of you move,” Visna shouted. “And then I will kill the rest of you.”
For a moment Fengar seemed content to let her kill Griva, but Raef could see the agitation on the faces of the warriors and knew the king would lose the loyalty of each and every man if he let the old man die. Fengar knew it, too. He held out his hands to show he did not threaten. “He is no skald.”
Visna frowned. “What other purpose does an old man have?”
“He is,” Fengar paused, “skilled in many things.” Raef had thought the old man a priest of Odin and was surprised to not hear him named so.
“Then if you value his skills you will do as I say.”
With a cry, a warrior charged from Visna’s right. Moving with deadly speed, she shoved Griva to the ground, whirled, sliced, and killed with a single motion. Griva was collared and the steel, dripping now with a dead man’s blood, returned to his throat before he had a chance to move.
Fengar grimaced. “Name your price.”
Visna’s gaze shot across the clearing, behind Fengar, to where the three captives stood. “I want her.”
The woman turned and ran.
For a moment, no one moved, then Fengar shouted for someone to chase after her. Three men sprinted into the trees, but Raef had moved first. There was little time to think, but he did not intend to leave Visna alone. No matter how deadly she had proved herself to be, she was no longer a Valkyrie and he did not trust her to remember this.
The woman was headed toward him and Raef only needed to step out from the trees to bring her down. They landed with a thud and the woman began to scream, but Raef was deaf to her pleas as he led her back to the clearing, Vakre at his side. The three warriors slid to a halt as he approached, hands going to sword hilts, but a burst of flame from Vakre sent them reeling, their faces ashen, eyes staring. Raef entered the clearing unimpeded.
“Skallagrim.” Fengar’s voice was hushed, but then he rounded on Griva, who was still in Visna’s bloody grasp. “You said he was dead.”
“The gods love chaos,” Griva said, grimacing as his throat moved against Visna’s blade.
Fengar looked once more at Raef and gestured to the woman in his grip. “This woman means something to you?”
“No.”
Fengar frowned. “Then why interfere?”
“Because these are my lands.”
“And I am king.”
“Not my king.”
Fengar’s gaze flickered and he did not look Raef in the eye. “Well, woman,” he said, facing Visna now. “There is your prize. Let him go.”
Visna shoved Griva to the ground, her gaze fixed now on the woman who clutched at Raef in fear. But she had taken no more than two steps when Griva hissed a curse at her and Visna turned, eyes flashing, steel carving a path through the air toward the old man’s chest.
Raef saw the blonde women too late. Like wolves, they sprang at Visna, and her death blow turned into a desperate, swinging defense as they attacked her from both sides. Raef leaped forward, his movements hampered by the woman at his side, and the butt end of a spear plowed into his chest, sending him backward. Before he could move again, the spear point was at his throat and a grizzled warrior, face hidden by a thick black beard, barred his way. Behind the warrior, Visna was on her knees, panting, blood running down her face, her sword out of reach, and the blonde women, two of the so-called Daughters of Thor, stood over her in triumph.
Raef felt the rush of heat and thrust his arm back, palm out, to where Vakre smoldered just behind him. “No, Vakre.” The heat faded but did not disappear. Raef looked at Fengar, who had not moved, had not given an order. “Call them off. We are not here to fight.”
Fengar hesitated, uncertainty clouding his eyes. Griva sidled up beside the king and whispered into Fengar’s ear. Fengar flinched away from the old man’s touch, but the doubt fled from his face. “Bind them.”
They fought, Visna screaming in fury, Raef beating back the bear-like warrior, Vakre lunging for one of the blonde sisters, but the opponents were too many. An arrow pierced Raef’s sho
ulder and dizziness swarmed over his vision in an instant. Raef, sluggish, stared down at the white fletching and then at his empty hands. His sword was gone, though he did not know he had dropped it, and then he was on the ground. The beating was merciless and Raef fought to stay conscious, sucking in air when he could, striking out with his feet in vain. By the time he felt the ropes cut into the skin of his wrists, his vision was reduced to a blur of light slashed through with shadows, and then all was darkness.
Seven
“He is no use to me dead.”
The voice was both grating to Raef’s ears and hard to hear, the words a jumble in his mind until sense was made of them.
“The poison will wear off, lord. It is my own blend.” The second voice was faint, light, a drop of water beyond reach. Raef fought to open his eyes and for a moment thought he had failed to do so. Then the stars came into focus. He could see little else and nothing of the voices in the dark. The ground was cold beneath him but free of snow and he began to understand the shape of a crude half-shelter fashioned together of wood and branches and skins.
“For your sake, I hope you are telling the truth.” The third voice was deeper than the first two, harsh and unfriendly.
“I do not make a habit of lying to lords.” Female. Yes. The second voice belonged to a woman. “He will wake. The wound itself is minimal and has been cleaned and stitched. It was my poison that brought him down so quickly.” Raef traced a finger along his shoulder, feeling the puckered skin and gut stitches beneath his woolen layers.
“And the others?” The first voice returned and Raef, certain it belonged to Fengar, could now tell the three speakers were to his left.
“Brought down by more uncivilized means.” There was no doubting the disdain in the woman’s voice. It had to be Vakre and Visna she spoke of and Raef’s heartbeat spiked. “But they, too, will return to the light.” Alive, then.