by T L Greylock
The thick snow made for slow progress and Raef and his companions trudged along up to their knees, keeping enough distance between them and Fengar’s rear guard to avoid being seen.
“We will be the first to close the trap from behind, Ruf,” Raef explained between breaths as he pushed through a high drift of snow. “It is vital that none escape.” It was the truth. The Vannheim men who descended to close off the front of the gorge would have an easier path. Those who were sent to join Raef and seal off the rear had a more treacherous descent, and if the attack was not perfectly timed, Raef and those with him would have to stand alone until reinforcements came. But he also said it to bolster Rufnir’s spirits, and Raef was rewarded by a grin that brightened his friend’s face.
“I will sing the steel song for them all,” Rufnir said, tugging at the Thor hammer that dangled from his neck, his shield strapped tight against his stump.
“Try to leave a few for me.”
As the gorge came into sight ahead of them, Raef did his best to narrow the gap between them and the last of Fengar’s warriors, though the lack of cover kept them from getting as close as he would like. He saw nothing of the warriors that lay in wait, nothing of Vakre, and for a moment Raef felt alone in that windswept valley, but then he glimpsed a soaring shape high in the sky, an eagle, its wings spread wide to catch the air, and he thought of Siv and the nerves vanished, supplanted by the first tremors of keen anticipation. With a nod exchanged between them, Visna broke away from Raef, Rufnir, and Dvalarr, heading to the eastern side of the valley, an arrow already nocked on the string of the borrowed bow. She would make her way to the top of the gorge opposite Vakre to make visual contact with him and signal the start of the attack, then rain down arrows until she had none left.
Dvalarr watched her go, openly admiring her long, sure strides and the wave of her golden hair where it vanished into her hood.
“Where did you find such a woman?”
There would be a time to tell Visna’s story, to reveal her to the world so her name might ring across the skies as Raef had promised, but it was not now. “Only the gods know.” It was true enough. Raef grinned at Dvalarr. “Come, Crow. Do your axes hunger for the taste of blood?”
Dvalarr loosed the pair of axes from his belt and kissed the cold steel heads in turn. “Their thirst is great, lord.” There was no grin on Dvalarr’s face, only a promise of death.
Fengar’s host had almost reached the gorge and Raef glanced up to see that Visna was nearly in position. Throwing caution away, Raef hurried forward, Dvalarr and Rufnir at his heels, every pounding step taking him closer to battle.
As the last of Fengar’s warriors filed into the narrow path between the walls of rock, Raef looked to the sky. An arrow streaked across the gorge and dark figures began to emerge from between the jagged slopes and boulders that framed the cliffs. One by one, the warriors of Vannheim trickled down to reach Raef, each man sliding into place, shield overlapping shield until they were twelve across and two deep. Ahead of them, the gorge rang with the voices of men, but not with alarm, and then at last the shout came, echoing back along the cliffs, reaching Raef as only a ragged cry. The warriors in Fengar’s column came to life. The retreat came quickly, pressed on by the sudden appearance of a shield wall blocking the forward exit, Raef knew, and he braced for impact.
The charge was hard and fast, a great press of men and sweat, but uneven and without order, and Raef’s line held with ease. Then a voice came to Raef, sharp in the cold air, shouting commands, and Raef, tucked behind his shield, knew the next push would come with greater precision and less fear. He risked a glance and saw Alvar of Kolhaugen on horseback, sword in hand, spit flying from between his teeth as he barked orders. If there were men from Axsellund among those about to charge, Raef could not say. Raef ducked as the opposing shield wall came forward, this time with even, measured steps mixed with angry insults and roars of defiance. As the walls clashed a second time, sending shudders through Raef’s bones, the hacking and the bloodletting and the dying began.
It was the Crow who broke through, his great strength beating back the man opposite him, and then, his shield forgotten, he began to unleash his axes in a fury. One, longer hafted than its sister, stroked through the chests of two men, while the shorter one hacked through the leg muscles of another. Raef, at Dvalarr’s side, pushed into the space the Crow was cleaving open in Alvar’s shield wall, battering one warrior down with his shield and finishing him with a swift chop through the skull that sent shards of bone flying. Behind Raef, his men poured into the hole they had created, driving Alvar’s men apart until they could no longer help defend each other, and Fengar’s rear guard began to crumble.
Given a moment of respite behind Dvalarr’s bulk, Raef wiped blood from his face with his shield arm. Only when he nearly gouged out his own eye with a splinter did he realize how battered his shield was. It would offer little in the way of protection, so Raef let it fall to the gore-slick snow and drew his sword. Ahead, he could see Torleif rallying the warriors of Axsellund to him and Raef felt a hope of victory swell in his chest. Calling on Dvalarr and Rufnir to follow him, Raef pushed onward, ready to meet Fengar in the thick of it.
The scream was piercing, fierce, and demanded death. Raef, having slashed through a warrior’s neck, looked up to see Griva, all bones and knife blades and wild eyes, throw himself from his saddle and onto Torleif, landing like a deadly cloak on the young lord’s shoulders. Torleif turned and twisted, trying to shake the old man off, but Griva sunk in his hold as a wolf does his teeth when he has latched onto prey. A knife flashed, someone shouted, and then blood was gushing from Torleif’s neck. Again and again Griva plunged the blade into Torleif until at last the young lord’s legs gave way and they both went down in a heap of blood and limbs.
Raef plunged forward, desperate to reach Torleif, but he was not the only one. The warrior with the serpent tattooed on his neck got there first and he flung himself on the bodies, separating Torleif from Griva, flinging the old man’s skinny frame aside with vicious force. Raef reached for Griva, his axe ready to split ribs, but he never got the chance.
The thunder came without warning, cracking across the narrow sky between the two cliffs, and the earth shook beneath Raef with such violence that he was sure Thor himself had come. The ground lurched underfoot, the snow tossing and heaving like Jörmungand in the sea, sending Raef to his knees, and there he locked eyes with Torleif and saw the fear there that only a dying man knows.
In the next instant, Raef was hurled in the air and beneath him he saw man and horse and rock and snow all collide as though in the grip of a giant, flesh mashing against stone, snow burying faces and hearts and lungs that clawed for air. And then Raef landed, his arms caught beneath him, and watched as a tide of snow peppered with rocks chased him down. His world went white as the avalanche caught him up in its icy folds. He tumbled, he knew not how far, and then all was still and dark, the only sound his heart pounding in the cocoon that would soon be his tomb.
Eleven
He was lucky. The avalanche had deposited him with the crook of his elbow and his forearm up around his head, creating a pocket of air. Raef mustered his saliva and let a drop of spit leave his lips. It dripped down his chin, not into his nose. He was upright. And he was still alive and conscious.
Raef took a deep breath to still his frantic heart and quiet his mind. His axe and sword were gone, flung far afield in the tumult, but a knife lingered in his belt. He could feel it press against his hip, a presence that would have been reassuring if he could have snaked his arm around and drawn the blade. It seemed a small, useless tool against the heavy press of snow that covered Raef, but it was all he had. Except that he did not have it. His left arm had created the air bubble and his right was trapped against his side. He had a small amount of wiggle room around his chest, but his limbs might as well have been severed from his body for all the good they would do him.
Raef swallowed and tried to take sma
ll, shallow breaths to conserve what air was left to him, but the panic swelled in his chest like waves battering a rocky coastline. Raef shouted, called for Vakre, Visna, anyone who might hear, but the snow only threw his pleas back at him and Raef soon fell silent.
“Forgive me, father. I have failed you in every way.” The voice hardly seemed to be his, so hushed, so broken. But it was a voice that spoke the truth and Raef closed his eyes and hoped the cold would take him quickly.
The sound came to him from a different world, a world of wind and waves, of canvas collaring the air, of sleek longships riding the ocean. It was the sound of well-worn wood rubbing against itself, a familiar, tender sound. But then the wood became brittle sheets of snow pierced with shards of ice, and something was scraping, scraping, soft at first, and then the sound roared in Raef’s ears and he was sucked through the snow so suddenly he could not catch his breath. Raef felt air, empty air, and then he was caught, cradled in a sharp but gentle embrace, and at last he opened his eyes to see the ground give way beneath him as he rose up, up into the blue, driven skyward by a pair of smoke-colored wings.
**
The kin refused to leave his side. She curled around him, her wings enfolding him with a leathery warmth, but it seemed to Raef as he stroked her neck that she stayed close to him out of fear as much as for concern for him.
They were perched above the gorge, out of sight of the battle that was now buried under the snow, for she had flown high and fast to the summits above. Below, Raef could just see small, dark figures, survivors, though how many and who he could not know from that distance.
The kin blinked her sunset eyes and shivered. She seemed skinny to Raef, her bones more obvious beneath the stretched leather, her talons sharper, and he rubbed the spot between her eyes while whispering to her.
“How is it that you are here?” He rubbed harder as she leaned into him. “I would give much to understand your thoughts, to know what brought you here, to know how things stand in Alfheim.” Raef thought of Anuleif’s words. The boy had said Alfheim was in darkness and ruin. And he thought of the corpse of the giant, fallen from the sky. The boundaries between realms were weakening. “Do not be afraid. You have saved my life more than once. Let me look after you now.”
Raef got to his feet and the kin did the same, coiling around him as she rose up to tower over him.
“You have grown.” He smiled at her. “Now we must put some meat on those bones, give you strength to match your speed.” Raef looked down into the valley, trepidation at what he would find there rubbing away at him as surely as the winter wind. “And I must go back.”
As if she understood, the kin crouched and Raef swung himself onto her back, the exhilaration at what was to come rushing over him as she unfurled her wings. They were away before he had time to take a breath, diving down the face of the mountain as straight as an arrow and far more deadly.
The human figures below grew and grew and Raef saw arms point skyward, saw astonished faces take in the sight of him on the kin’s back. They landed on the northern end of the gorge, where the survivors were fewest in number and where the western cliff face had crumbled. But as he walked the length of the gorge, the smoke-colored kin a shadow behind him, he saw the faces of both friend and foe alike. Some were digging, calling to comrades, searching for friends, dead or alive, others sat against the broken, shattered rocks, their faces white with shock. Most stared at Raef with a mixture of fear and awe, but one gave him no notice at all.
The snake tattooed warrior knelt in the snow, a corpse cradled across his knees. In death Torleif looked at peace, the fear Raef had seen staring back at him in that final moment now closed behind eyelids that would not open.
Raef stopped and went to one knee, the kin nudging her nose against his back to let him know she was there.
“Do not pretend to mourn him, Skallagrim.” The warrior’s voice was full of bitter anger. He looked up and Raef saw a face streaked with tears, though the brown depths of his eyes seemed dry now. “You do not deserve to mourn him.”
Raef fingered the hammer that hung at Torleif’s neck. It was finely wrought, delicate silver stamped with intricate patterns. “You are right.” He met the warrior’s gaze. “I do not.”
Commotion at the southern end of the gorge drew Raef’s attention and he left the warrior to his grief, continuing on to see what fate awaited him there.
The shouts were angry ones, but tinged with dread, and men had clustered together, almost close enough to form a shield wall. Raef watched the grey kin fly up to perch above the crowd, then pushed through and found Vakre on the other side, head held high, defiance in his eyes.
A Vannheim warrior clutched at Raef’s elbow. “He did it, lord, he started it all.” The man’s eyes stared down at Vakre’s feet, and it was only then that Raef saw that snow was melting where the son of Loki stood.
“Fengar was fleeing. I did what I had to.” Vakre’s jaw seemed to grind together as he spoke, ice against stone, and Raef saw in him the same ruthless, wild, single-minded hunter that Raef had first met in the forest of Balmoran.
“Is Fengar here? Does Fengar lie beneath the snow?” One man, bolder than the rest, stepped forward. “No, Fengar is out of our reach.”
Raef’s heart sank in his chest and he looked over his shoulder to the mountain passes that lay to the north. The would-be king would have had many paths to choose from.
“What happened?” Raef’s question was for all, but it was Vakre he stared at. The son of Loki’s gaze was frozen as thick as a waterfall in winter and Raef knew he would have no more answers there.
“I will show you.” It was Visna who found the words to answer him. Raef had not seen her, had not heard her approach. She took his hand and led him back through the gorge
“We have all seen fire burn. Today I have seen fire do things I did not think possible. The flames blazed through rock and snow, shattering the cliff face.” The rocks were streaked black with smoke, Raef saw, licked by fire. “He stood just there,” Visna said, gesturing, “and the ground broke beneath his feet.”
“Why?”
“Fengar and the one with the knives got loose, carried past the shield wall by their horses. The lord of Finnmark followed. Vakre was not willing to watch them get away.” Visna pushed hair from her eyes and looked hard at Raef. “He is your friend, I see that. But he is dangerous. A wise man would not be friends with the son of Loki, or of any god.”
The words were so like the one’s Raef’s father had spoken so long before that Raef heard his father’s voice once more. “And you? Are you not the child of a god?”
“I was. There is nothing of Asgard left in me.” Visna took Raef’s hand once more. “I fear what Vakre may become.”
“I cannot believe he intended,” Raef flung an arm out to encompass the destruction around them, “this.”
“Does he deny it? Do you see regret and remorse in those eyes?”
Raef had seen nothing but cold fury in Vakre’s eyes, but he was not about to admit that to Visna. He looked north once more.
“So Fengar is gone, and Ten-blade and Romarr with him. Let the winter take them.” Raef turned his attention back to the gorge. “How many survive?”
“Tell me how it is that you ride a skeiflyng of Alfheim and I will answer that.”
“Skeiflyng. So that is their true name.” Raef could not help but feel that knowing the true name of the dragon-kin was a betrayal to Finnoul. He wondered if she lived yet, if devastation had come to Alfheim as Anuleif said, befouled by the wolf Fenrir, broken by giants once more. “She is an old friend.” He did not have the will to say more.
Visna held his gaze for a long time and then nodded. “If we are lucky, we may dig up a few more before they perish beneath the snow, but I count no more than thirty-eight survivors. Fengar’s men are all but wiped out.” She pointed to a small group that huddled near a pair of nervous horses. “What will you do with them?”
Raef looked over the eight
warriors. They avoided his gaze and their faces were those of men who wait for death. “If they will fight for me, I will not turn them away.” A dark shape in the snow caught Raef’s eye and he knelt to pluck up a black crow’s feather. It was bent and tattered, no longer the shiny piece of plumage that Griva had worn in his hair, but Raef flung it away in disgust. “What of Griva? Is the old snake buried with the rest?”
“I have not seen him.”
“Lord.” Dvalarr the Crow approached, his tattoo savaged by a blooming, bleeding gash across his head. A purple bruise was already spreading down to his cheek and up over the top of his scalp. The Crow’s hands were unsteady as he handed Raef something wrapped in a dead man’s cloak.
Raef let the wool fall away to reveal his sword and axe. The axe blade was crusted with dried blood but the sword shone bright and clean. Raef wiped the axe on the cloak and then secured both to his belt, more comforted by their presence there than he could say, and rested a hand on Dvalarr’s shoulder.
“I thought these would lie under the snow until spring. Thank you.”
The Crow nodded and Raef tightened his grip on Dvalarr’s shoulder as he felt the large man sway.
“Look to your wound, Crow.”
“It is nothing. It was only a rock.”
“I insist. The lady Visna will help you.” Visna stiffened beside Raef and he turned to her as Dvalarr sank down into the snow. “You are the sunrise and the sunset and the sweetest cup of mead to him. Be kind.” Visna rolled her eyes with good-natured tolerance and knelt to clean the blood from Dvalarr’s pale skull.
When Raef returned to the southern end of the gorge, he found Vakre unchanged. He stood apart, stiff and unrepentant, and met Raef’s questioning look with indifference. The crowd of men around him had dispersed as the warriors gathered what they could from the snow. Corpses were discovered, men out of breath and out of time, men who died without knowing that the surface, the sunlight, was less than an arm’s length away. Others would be buried deeper, left to freeze into the ice, their terror preserved for the spring thaw. Raef swallowed, feeling the snow close in around him once more, and wondered how deep he had been.