by T L Greylock
“What news?” Fengar looked as though he would rather not hear the answer.
Valdemar dismounted, his face grim, and stood close to Fengar to speak in the king’s ear. The wounded man was carried away, and the crowd thinned until Raef had a good view of the king and his captain.
“Perhaps the Hammerling has sniffed out Fengar’s trail,” Vakre said.
“Or perhaps Valdemar brings word of Vannheim, of my naming as king, of the men I sent to gather a host here.”
Fengar was speaking and Raef watched as Valdemar’s frown grew deeper. The broken man glanced at Raef, then he was striding toward them, Fengar not far behind. Raef stood his ground as Valdemar seized him by the shoulder and pressed a knife to his throat.
“What brought you here, Skallagrim? Speak!”
“I am unarmed. My hands are bound. You need not threaten me.”
Valdemar snarled and pressed the blade harder against Raef’s skin. “Answer me.”
Visna looked to Fengar. “Lord, we are your prisoners. Skallagrim has done you no harm.”
Fengar looked uncertain and it was a different voice that snaked into Raef’s ears. “Soft words from a soft woman.” Ulthor Ten-blade stepped between Visna and Fengar, just on the edge of Raef’s vision. He took a strand of Visna’s hair between his fingers and raised it to his nose, inhaling deeply. Visna stiffened and recoiled. “Taken a liking to the lord of Vannheim, lady? Do you wish to save his pretty skin?” Ten-blade twisted the hair around his fingers. “If you want a good fucking, you need only ask.”
Fengar came to life. “Enough.” Ten-blade grinned and released Visna’s hair, then came to stand by Valdemar. Raef could feel his hot breath, could feel those mismatched eyes bore into him, but he kept his focus on the broken man.
“The knife stays until you speak,” Valdemar said, paying no mind to Ten-blade. “The truth now, son of Einarr.”
“What is truth, when it is balanced on a sharp blade?” Raef said.
Fengar stepped forward. “You told Alvar you were to visit Bergoss on behalf of the Hammerling.”
“Yes.”
“It seems your tongue is twisted with lies, Skallagrim. You see, my good eye was in Bergoss not five days ago.” Fengar stepped close to Raef, a hint of a challenge in eyes that had been dull and defeated only a moment before. “And he heard a strange tale, of an envoy sent from the Hammerling and led by none other than Hauk of Ruderk. Twenty men with gilded tongues and a banner from Finngale. And the lord of Ruderk spoke with Sverren, drank mead with Sverren, laughed and hunted with Sverren. They talked of war and bright blades, of battle, of shield walls and the men to fill them. Tell me, why would the Hammerling send two men to speak with Sverren Red-tail and Torleif of Axsellund? Why would he send you with only this cursed bastard for a companion, only to send out Hauk of Ruderk with a party of warriors at his command? Answer now with the truth.”
Raef took a deep breath and prepared to line his tongue with another lie. The movement was so quick, he almost missed it. Ten-blade’s hand flicked to his belt and then up again, slicing a piece of Raef’s hair off before he even saw the blade in the fading light. The knife came up again, the point grazing Raef’s temple and then curling through his hair. “You are too patient, Valdemar,” Ten-blade said. “Or do you not mean to make him bleed?”
With a roar, Valdemar turned on Ten-blade, a long-fingered hand wrapping around his neck, the other hand releasing his knife to twist Ten-blade’s wrist and force him to empty his hand. Throwing Ten-blade to the ground, Valdemar retrieved his knife and advanced, while Ten-blade, cursing, scrambled for his own blade.
“I will skin you, maggot-mouth,” Ten-blade said, coming to his feet and drawing a second knife from his belt. “And then I will scatter your bones so you will never reach Valhalla.”
They came together in a tussle of limbs, Valdemar perhaps the stronger of the two, but it took only a moment to know that Ten-blade was more skilled with his blades. Ten-blade was all quickness, darting, striking, his movements easy. Raef backed away as a streak of blood splattered across the snow as Ten-blade slashed at the broken man’s arm, leaving a deep gash that soaked the cloth of Valdemar’s sleeve in an instant.
Fengar did nothing. His hands were clenched at his sides, white knuckles showing, and behind him Romarr, Vakre’s uncle, watched with a gleam in his eyes. The fight ended quickly. Valdemar, his clothing shredded, his wounds many, lay spread out on the snow, the hilt of a knife protruding from his belly. He writhed for a moment, each scrape of his boots against the fresh snow a plea that went unanswered by all save the river, and then lay still. Ten-blade, unscathed but for the red marks where Valdemar had grabbed his neck, spit onto the broken man’s blank, dead face.
“Your dog needs a leash, uncle.” Vakre’s voice penetrated the silence and Ten-blade turned on him. Raef stepped between them, though he could not hope to defend himself, much less Vakre as well. The blow fell hard and fast on his temple and then Ten-blade was on Vakre, doubling him over with a savage punch to the gut that had Vakre gasping before Raef’s knees hit the ground. Lunging, Raef flung himself on Ten-blade’s legs, his movements clumsy as his skull throbbed, but his weight and force was enough to bring them both down. Without the use of his hands, Raef’s struggles were in vain and it was only a moment before Ten-blade was straddled over his chest, his arms a blur as he hit Raef again and again.
Time seemed to slow and the pain swelled in his chest and head. Blood trickled into his eye and he tasted it on his lips. In the corners of his reeling vision, he caught glimpses of feet, but all seemed still. If anyone moved to stop Ten-blade, Raef was blind to it. Before the darkness came, Raef focused on Fengar’s face. The king’s gaze was on the crimson spotted snow, a twitch in his cheek, his mouth clamped shut like a bear trap, his eyes those of a panicked animal facing fate.
**
He saw Odin, one-eyed and terrible, his mighty spear splintered. He saw Isolf in the Vestrhall, seated in his father’s chair. He saw Hauk of Ruderk, cloaked in shadows, sharpening a sword. And he heard the voice of a flute, high and wavering at first, then growing in strength. It was a song Gudrik had played and when Raef stirred into wakefulness, the poet’s song pulsed on in his heart.
The night was dark, the moon shadowed by clouds that slid across the pale face. Raef’s face was raw and scraped, one eye puffy and swollen.
Something cold was pressed against his temple, and Raef flinched away, only to realize it was snow, and it was soothing, and he wanted it desperately. The snow pack sent rivulets of melted water running down his cheek. A dribble caught in the corner of his mouth and Raef let it wet his lips.
“Can you hear me?”
It was Vakre’s voice and Raef turned his head to locate him. The son of Loki was bruised and beaten, but, as Raef stirred, a pulse of flame bloomed in the palm of his hand, then spread until Vakre’s fingers were shrouded with fire. The warmth was as welcome as the icy water and Raef closed his eyes and savored the heat.
“Our death comes at dawn,” Vakre said. “Fengar means to give us to Griva’s knife.”
Raef struggled to sit and Vakre helped him lean against the shelter. His flaming hand continued to burn and Raef was glad of it for reasons he could not say. Visna was peering out of the shelter, but she ducked back in, shaking her head.
“Even if we subdued the two who watch over us, there are too many,” the Valkyrie said. “Perhaps if I were armed, I could cut down enough to get you into the trees.”
“I will burn them,” Vakre said and Raef could see the resolution in his eyes. “Or enough of them to let you get away.”
“And leave you to have your guts strung up in a tree? No.”
“Do not argue with me, Raef. If I do not, none of us will survive. If I do, there is a chance, a small one, but a chance, that one of us will make it.” The fire dimmed in Vakre’s hand and then went out. “It is a better death than most.” Vakre got to his feet and offered Raef a hand. “Can you stand?”
/> Dizziness swept over Raef as Vakre pulled him up, but it passed quickly and he began to protest again.
“I am going out there and I mean to bring upon them such a blaze that the gods themselves will feel its heat. If you hesitate, I will die in vain.” Vakre’s gaze hardened. “Do not hesitate.”
Vakre ducked out of the shelter and Raef hurried after, his hand reaching to pull Vakre back, but both were brought up short before taking another step by the approach of a tall blonde woman, her hair silver in the moonlight.
“I will watch them.” The daughter of Thor pushed past the two warriors assigned to stay with Raef, Vakre, and Visna. “Go.” The men were eager to comply, no doubt thinking of the skins of ale that awaited them. The woman raised her voice to address the remaining warriors who clustered around two small fires or stood on watch at the edge of the clearing. “All of you, the king would speak with you. I will stay with the prisoners.” The woman watched them go and then moved to confront Raef and Vakre. She looked long and hard at them before speaking. “My sister is dead?” The daughter of Thor was as tall as Raef and well-muscled. She gazed at Raef over a once-broken nose.
“Yes. What was her name?” Raef said.
“She was Tora.”
“And yours?”
The blonde woman scowled at Raef but answered. “Inge.”
“I am sorry for your sister’s death, Inge. I am sure Tora sits at the Allfather’s table.”
The scowl deepened. “I hope she does not. I hope she is freezing in the darkness of Hel.” Inge spit in the snow. “Was it you who took her life?”
Raef was about to answer with the truth, that he had only stumbled upon Tora’s frozen corpse in the deep snows of Hullbern, but Vakre spoke first.
“I did.”
Raef’s heartbeat quickened and he held his tongue, letting the son of Loki spin the lie.
Inge nodded at Vakre. “Then I thank you.” Her hand went to the knife at her belt and Raef tensed. “What would you have in return?”
Vakre held out his bound wrists. “Release us.”
Inge stepped forward and sawed through Vakre’s ropes with ease, then turned and began to work on Raef’s.
“Fengar will kill you when he discovers what you have done.”
“If he discovers it, yes, he will. Or he will have that dried up cock do it. But he will be right to do so, for I am dishonoring and disobeying him.”
“Then why do it?”
Inge’s pale grey eyes bore into Raef’s. “Because I will go to my death knowing I have outlived one sister, perhaps even two if the king sends Gudra after me, and that is worth the price.” Raef’s ropes fell away and Inge, jaw clamped shut now, freed Visna, then led them to the edge of the river camp, far from the largest fire where the men gathered.
“Wait here. I will bring your weapons.”
She disappeared, leaving them to wait in tense silence. Raef had nearly decided to abandon their weapons and slink back to the eagle’s nest unarmed when Inge returned. Raef and Vakre armed themselves quickly while Visna stared at her sword for a moment before taking it in her hands.
With nothing more than a nod exchanged between them, they left Inge and slipped away, Raef hunched over from the pain of his injuries. They took precautions, weaving a course that led away from the eagle’s nest before doubling back and beginning the steep climb, but Raef did not think Inge would follow and they met only a pair of startled foxes as they returned to the nest.
Raef crested the summit and his heart swelled with gladness, for no longer was the nest shelter to Tuli alone. For a moment, he went unnoticed, and then the bowl came alive as his presence was first challenged and then welcomed with eager voices as more than twenty warriors of Vannheim recognized and greeted him. But one face caused Raef’s gut to clench and the voices grew quiet as the men saw what drew their lord’s gaze.
**
Dvalarr the Crow has shorn his beard. The hulking warrior stood before Raef, bereft of the great symbol of his long life and success in battle. Where once his head had been shaven only on the left, now his entire skull was hairless, the left dark with the ink of three crows, the right pale and free from scars. But there was no mistaking the Crow’s heavy brow and deep, dark eyes that bore into Raef.
“Crow,” Raef said, trying to mask the apprehension that fluttered in his chest. For Dvalarr the Crow had been the voice that had proclaimed Raef king, a voice urged to speak by Isolf, Raef was sure.
“King,” Dvalarr said, his voice strong and solemn.
“Am I?”
The Crow faltered, searching for words. “I know what you must think.”
“And what is that?”
“That I am a snake, a spy. That I ate from your cousin’s hand like a worthless dog, that I saw my own rise in your defeat.” With every word, the Crow seemed to grow more certain. “That I made an oath and broke it, that I spoke words your cousin whispered in my ear, that I named you king and sought your death.”
“Are you guilty of these things?”
Dvalarr was quiet for a moment. “My father once told me that the naming of a king is a thing most sacred, that the gods would strike down a man who spoke those words with a false heart. He told me of Olfin of the seal sons and Aedric Stonefoot and I listened with wide eyes. It is a story for children and I am a man long grown, a warrior who has sent many to Valhalla. But I never forgot my father’s words. You are my king, and may Odin deny me Valhalla if he thinks me a traitor.”
Raef let the Crow have his say and was quiet for a long moment. “Why have you shorn your hair and beard, Crow?”
“To show you that I come to you with nothing.” Dvalarr tossed something small and gleaming into the air. Raef caught it and held open his palm to the light of the fire. The thick ring of gold was plain and battered in more than one place.
“You wore this to tie your beard,” Raef said. Dvalarr nodded. “Why give this to me?”
“To show you that I come to you with nothing,” the Crow repeated. He stepped closer to Raef. “All men knew the Crow, he who scorned the wearing of arm rings, he who did not need a ring-giver, a lord, to make a name that the gods might hear. He was a proud man.”
“Are you not still a proud man, Dvalarr?”
The Crow knelt. “I could be, if I might serve you.”
Raef scanned the gathered warriors and found one clutching a skin. Raef nodded at the man and held out a hand. The warrior threw it to Raef, who uncapped it. The mead smelled rich and strong and made saliva fill Raef’s mouth. The weakness in his legs swelled and blood pounded in his temples, but he went to stand before Dvalarr and placed a hand on the Crow’s shoulder.
“Then be a proud man and share a drink with me, Crow.” Raef took a swig from the skin as he pulled Dvalarr to his feet, then handed the mead to the larger man. The warriors cheered as Dvalarr brought the skin to his lips, but quieted at a gesture from Raef.
“We are not alone here. Fengar of Solheim is in the valley below,” Raef said. The men began to talk all at once and then went silent when Raef raised his hand. “I have been his prisoner these past three nights. I do not believe he will find us here, but we must take precautions. I will allow a fire in the largest cave,” Raef said, gesturing to the back of the bowl, “but we must come and go with care. We will use the goat paths to climb into the mountains to find game and slip down to the fjord at night to fish. And we will wait for more men to gather here and then we will descend upon Fengar as the white owl does a mouse in the night, with deadly silence and ready talons, for I will tolerate no foe on Vannheim soil.”
The men were glad, their hearts full of promise and ale, but Raef’s vision swam and it was difficult to conceal his exhaustion and the extent of his injuries as he, gathering warm thick reindeer skins, limped to the cave where a pair of men were already at work building a fire. Raef sank to the ground and leaned back against the stones, but the sight of the growing flames reminded him of Anuleif, He Who Burned. The boy was nowhere to be seen.
Raef called for Tuli, who had remained in the nest when Raef ventured into the valley.
“The boy, Anuleif. What happened to him?”
Tuli’s cheerful face turned sour and grim. “He went in search of you. I tried to stop him, lord, but he was quick.”
“Do not burden yourself with him, Tuli. The boy found me and I sent him off again. I meant for him to return here.”
“He did. But only to say that he could no longer remain. He was gone before morning.”
Raef nodded, keeping his face calm, though his mind was a sea of turmoil. Like a fisherman on the wide waves, the boy had cast a line into the depths of Raef’s heart and hooked something there, something that would not be tugged free. But now the fisherman had returned to shore, leaving the fish to wriggle, unaided, on the hook.
Tuli turned to go but Raef called him back. “What were the boy’s exact words?”
Tuli frowned and Raef could see him pulling the words from memory as though each were a fragment of glass. “He said he could no longer remain in the land of the rising sun.”
“The rising sun? Vannheim stretches to the west, not the east,” Raef said. Tuli shrugged and left the cave, leaving Raef alone to fall into a heavy, dreamless sleep.
Nine
For nineteen days, Raef bought back his strength with hot stews of venison and rabbit, with charred, briny fish, with rest and careful ministrations to the arrow wound and the bruises lacing across his torso, and in those nineteen days, the number of men in the eagle’s nest swelled. The warriors trickled in, sometimes in pairs, sometimes alone, and once half a shield wall of eighteen men came at sunset, and each brought axe or spear or sharp sword.
Of the men in the valley, Raef saw little. Fengar seemed content to linger there, fishing in the river and foraging in the forest. No more men joined him there, Raef’s scouts said, but whether Fengar waited for more warriors or simply was too uncertain to venture beyond the valley, the men could not say. There was no sign of pursuit from the Hammerling, or reinforcement from Stefnir of Gornhald, and Raef yearned for news of both men.