The Song of the Ash Tree- The Complete Saga

by T L Greylock

  One was found alive. Alvar of Kolhaugen’s red glass earring had been ripped from his earlobe. It dangled now from his hair, caught up in the long tangles that had nearly strangled Alvar. He was blue in the face and his lips were a deep purple as though stained with the juice of blackberries. His horse was found nearby, lanced with a spear through the belly, but somehow alive. Raef leaned close and slid his knife across the horse’s throat with a swift jerk, glad to spare the animal some pain, and he was about to grant Alvar the same peace when a shout rang out over the broken stones.

  The snake warrior had Griva by the neck and the old man was as limp as a meadow flower wilted under the hot summer sun. And yet when the warrior reached for his sword, a flash of white struck first, slicing through the warrior’s arm. In pain, the warrior bellowed and dropped Griva, who squirmed away like a wounded rabbit. The warrior clutched at his arm, blood dripping between his fingers, and Raef, closing the distance between them, saw now that Griva held a sharp wedge of bone, a crude weapon, but deadly.

  “Stay where you are, Skallagrim,” the warrior said, his voice the growl of an angry bear. “The wretch is mine.”

  “Shed my blood and you will lose the favor of the gods,” Griva shrieked.

  “I lost that with his death.” The warrior charged and Griva hopped back, but the blade still carved into his torso, cleaving through flesh and bone to split the old man from shoulder to ribs. Griva collapsed, the bone knife slipping from his fingers, but the snake warrior was not content with that. Howling with rage, he threw himself to the snow and shoved the white blade back into Griva’s outstretched hand.

  “Keep it, maggot, that I might kill you a thousand times again in Odin’s hall.” But Griva was still, his lifeblood coursing from the wound to congeal on the snow, and only the snake warrior could know if the death rattle of Griva’s last breath had come too soon.

  The shadow of the kin’s wings passed over the bloody scene in the snow as she came to land by Raef, a deep hiss in her throat warning off any threat, but all else was silence.

  Raef looked up and down the length of the gorge, taking in the worn, frayed, disoriented faces, and raised his voice so all might hear. “Any man who wants to live, let him follow me. The wolves will be here by nightfall.”

  It was a wretched procession that left the gorge behind and filtered down the alpine valley. Rufnir, acting on Raef’s orders, led the way. Visna and Dvalarr steered the horses that had survived. One carried Alvar of Kolhaugen, who still drew breath through his blue lips. Around them flowed men of Vannheim, of Axsellund, of far-flung places who had followed a king and found death. Raef watched them go from the back of the smoke-colored kin, but the sight of two men in the snow, still hemmed in by the high walls of the gorge, kept him from urging her to fly onward. Instead, they circled to the ground and Raef saw the faces of the two men who had chosen to stay behind. Both filled him with sorrow.

  He went to the warrior of Axsellund first, who had not moved since avenging Torleif’s death. Raef’s presence received no reaction, not until Raef knelt and untied the knot that held Torleif’s silver Thor hammer around his neck. Raef offered it to the warrior.

  “Would he want you to have it?”

  “What difference does it make? I will join him soon enough.” The man’s voice was dull, but it was his eyes that told Raef of the depth of his grief.

  “What is your name?”

  “Eyvind.”

  “You loved him?” The question hung between them and Eyvind looked up but did not answer. “Then live for him.” Raef lowered himself to sit in the snow, tucking his knees to his chest. He kept his eyes trained on Torleif’s face as he spoke. “It is no easy thing. To know you will live the length of your days without a glance at his face, without the sound of his laughter or the sight of his smile. It is enough to draw the life from you, slowly, painfully, leaving you wracked with loneliness.” Raef was quiet for a moment, then leaned forward and pressed the silver hammer into Eyvind’s empty hand. “I see her in the stars, in the rushing river, in all the things she loved in the world. It is not enough. But it is something to live on.”

  Raef let out a heavy breath that clouded the air in front of him. The sky was darkening and the choice was not his to make. He stood and walked away from Eyvind, the snow crunching underfoot the only sound between them.

  Vakre stood at the base of the gorge, his gaze drifting far afield, though whether he watched the horizon or was fixed on something only he could see, Raef could not say.

  “Leave me.” Vakre’s voice was raspy from disuse.

  “Why?” Raef had wanted to be calm, had meant to speak without anger, but all the frustration of the day welled up into his voice. “Why should I? Because you will burn me, too? Because your selfish action sent good men to Valhalla, or worse to a death unremembered, to a cold place far from Odin’s hall? I was there under the snow, Vakre.” Raef was shouting now. “I felt the weight of it, I could see my last breaths before me. Is this what you wanted? To break my only alliance before the mold was hardened? To show the world that the son of Loki is as cruel and thoughtless as his father?” He was ranting, he knew, his scrambled thoughts spilling from his mouth without sense, and it took effort to swallow them back. Chest heaving, Raef held his tongue until he could see straight once more. “Perhaps it is my own fault, my own single-mindedness that has brought us here. You have made me many promises, Vakre, and perhaps it is time I made you one.” Raef looked hard at his friend’s face, willing Vakre to show him something other than stony silence. “Ruin will come to your uncle, if that is your wish. He will face what he has done to you, and he will beg for death. This I swear to you. You do not stand alone.”

  The slivered moon hung low, riding the mountain crests in the eastern sky. A wolf’s howl raised the hair on the back of Raef’s neck.

  “Leave me,” Vakre repeated. “Please. I have broken the trust of the men who follow you. If I stay, I will only do more damage.”

  “They will forget it if I tell them to.”

  Only then did Vakre turn his head and meet Raef’s gaze, and it was as if that single action brought forth a flood of emotion. In Vakre’s eyes, Raef saw fear and sorrow and, most frightening of all, self-loathing. “I heard him laughing. My father.” Vakre blinked and the words rushed out. “The flames, they came before I knew I wanted them. I wanted only to catch Fengar and my uncle, but they blazed so bright that all else was lost to me, all was beyond my control. And then I heard him. And he was proud.” Vakre closed his eyes and Raef felt the wall begin to rise up again between them. “I do not trust myself, Raef. You must let me be, let me go to whatever fate my father has made for me.”

  “No. Your father is not your fate. I will not believe it.” Raef stepped forward and gripped Vakre’s sleeve, pulling the son of Loki close enough to see the flecks of gold in his eyes, even in the growing dark. “I will not.”

  To Raef’s surprise, Vakre smiled. It was small and sad, but there was a kernel of brightness in it, like the scales of a silver fish flashing through the deep blue of a sleeping fjord. “You cannot save us all, Raef, no matter how hard you try. Some people are not meant to be saved.”

  “I will not turn my back on you.”

  “You are a true friend. The singers will spin tales of your glorious victory at the burning lake, of your journey to Jötunheim and back again, of your pursuit of vengeance, of triumph over treachery. But if I could tell them to sing of one thing and one thing only, it would be of this.” Vakre reached out and placed his hand on Raef’s chest. “This heart that beats for others, for the stars in the sky and the green trees in the wind. Even for all the nine realms. It is a great heart.”

  “Come back with me, Vakre. The gods are not through with us.”

  **

  The fire was tall and blazing by the time Raef returned to the eagle’s nest with Eyvind, who had shouldered Torleif’s corpse, and Vakre at his heels, and its light did nothing to conceal the looks of discontent and ap
prehension at the arrival of the son of Loki. Raef ignored the glances and pushed through the crowd to warm himself by the fire, watching as Eyvind melted into the group of survivors from Axsellund and the kin settled onto a large flat rock that gave her a vantage point over the entire bowl. Vakre came to stand beside Raef and the warriors closest to them shifted, opening up more space for him, but one, a short, thickset man Raef recognized as being one of Fengar’s stood his ground, his mouth curled in a sneer, and muttered something about Vakre setting his own fire rather than taking the place of a wounded man who needed the warmth.

  Vakre grimaced. “I will go,” he said, and made to move off into the shadows.

  “No,” Raef said, gripping Vakre’s arm. “You will stay.”

  “Yes, stay and roast us over the fire, Lokison,” the short warrior said, growing bold in the face of Vakre’s mild reply.

  “He is ill luck, Skallagrim,” a voice called out. Raef swiveled but could not determine the source.

  “Let him answer for the destruction he has brought.” A few cheers followed this one, and suddenly the warriors gathered around the fire, enemies under the light of the sun, banded together in the light of the moon. Men began to press forward, calling for justice for their lost shield brothers, their voices finding strength in numbers.

  “Silence,” Raef shouted, earning a brief respite, but then the voices swelled and Raef felt the heat of the fire sear his skin as he was pushed closer to the flames. His sword slid from its scabbard in silence, but the blade, bright in the firelight, spoke for him. A ripple of movement beside Raef made him spin, ready to defend Vakre with his own life, but he held back at the sight of Dvalarr, axe in hand.

  “Any man who wants to see the Flamecloak dead will have to get through me,” the Crow said and the crowd grew quiet, though the faces were no less angry.

  “He is the spawn of Loki,” came a shout. “He will bring darkness upon us.”

  “His death will please the Allfather!”

  Vakre’s gaze flickered here and there, Raef saw, but he did not draw a weapon.

  The rush came with surprising speed, a single body leaping at Vakre with a yell, but Dvalarr thrust out at the man’s head with the butt end of his axe handle, knocking the assailant to the ground. He groaned and lay still, blood pumping from a growing welt on his temple.

  “The next man to move will die,” the Crow said. All was still and Raef sought words that might muster a peace, even an uneasy one, but Dvalarr spoke first. “You who followed Fengar,” Dvalarr spread his arms to encompass the warriors, “that spineless wretch who called himself king, be glad you draw breath and thank Skallagrim for it, for you would be lying in the snow, your frozen eyes staring at the crows that come to peck them out, if not for this man who let you walk away from death.” The Crow took a deep breath and went on, his voice ringing over the stones. “And you, men of Vannheim, you should be ashamed, you who swore oaths to the Skallagrim, our king. Do your words mean so little? You have sworn to lay down your lives in service to him, to uphold his will and word, but now, in his hour of need, you dishonor him and in doing so, you tarnish the names of your fathers who came before and your sons who will hope to follow. Are we oathbreakers? Are we cowards, fit only to die old and frail by the hearth, beyond all dreams of glory? No, we are wolves of war and we are sworn brothers. Conquer your fear and hold your tongues or I will tear them from you!” The Crow was red in the face now, and shaking with anger. “Will none of you stand with me? Will none of you hold true to the oaths you swore?”

  “I will stand with you, Crow.” Rufnir stepped forward and planted himself beside Dvalarr.

  “And I.”

  “I will.”

  Three, five, then ten men came to the edge of the fire and formed a wall between Vakre and his accusers. A log cracked, sending a shower of sparks into the air, and so silent was the eagle’s nest that Raef was sure he could hear each and every spark hiss against the cold stone ground.

  Raef nodded at Dvalarr and then pushed through the barrier. He looked from face to face, trying to discern the minds behind the shadowed eyes.

  “I speak to those who came to this valley with Fengar and to those who came with Torleif. I do not ask for your oaths or your loyalty or your lives. I will not keep malcontents here simply to fill my shield wall. I will not let disgruntled minds sow dissention and doubt among the rest. If your heart longs for a far off place, a home left behind, then go. I have no quarrel with you.” Raef let that hang in the air for a moment. “Unless,” he went on, sharpening his voice, “unless you threaten that which I hold dear. You have until the sun rises to make your decisions.” Raef paused again and let his desperation, his fury well up to fill his lungs. “And to the rest, to you who were born and bred in Vannheim, whose fathers and fathers before have called these hills and waters home, to you I say this. Are we not brothers of Ymir? Are we not raised on that mighty giant’s blood? Is his heart not our heart, beating still? It is not in my nature to succumb. Let the gods do as they will.” Raef’s voice dropped. “Will you lend me your shields? Your hearts? Your lives?”

  For a long moment, the crowd of warriors stayed rigid, and then they scattered like raindrops in a pond. Some went with quick, furtive steps, others with careful, deliberate strides. A few spoke, their voices coming to Raef like the sound of water falling in the distance, but it was the Axsellund warriors who moved as one, collecting their belongings and then huddling together away from the light of the fire.

  “Is it wise to let them go?” Rufnir asked.

  “Perhaps not. But I meant what I said. Resentment is like a rotten wound. It spreads.” Raef reached up the sleeve of his left arm and unhooked one of the silver rings from his forearm. He held it up so the others might see. It bore the head of a bear and its eyes were tiny blue gems. “Crow,” Raef said, “I want you to have this.”

  Dvalarr took the ring in one large hand, a hand still crusted with the blood of dead men, a hand that cradled it as though it were a gift from Odin himself.

  “And I am proud to bear it, lord.” The Crow curved the bear around his wrist and pushed the ring up his arm as far as it would go. “But what will you do with him?”

  Alvar of Kolhaugen had been propped up near the fire, so close that the blanket wrapped around his legs was beginning to smoke. Visna shoved his legs to the side and stamped out the sparks that were smoldering at the edge, but her movement caused Alvar to slump sideways to the ground. Dvalarr grabbed Alvar’s shoulder and hauled him upright again, but Alvar was as limp as an eel and he flopped to the other side the moment Dvalarr released him.

  Raef squatted down to peer in Alvar’s face. His lower lip hung open, revealing brown teeth, and his glassy eyes stared at the flames without seeing. Without his red glass bead, Alvar was nothing more than a common warrior, and Raef wondered what the farmers and fishermen of Kolhaugen would think if they saw him now. They would surely not see him as a lord, a ring-giver, a fame-bringer.

  “Will he last the night?” Raef spread the lids of Alvar’s right eye but even this got no response.

  “I do not think it is the cold that will kill him,” Vakre said.

  “If he has not changed by morning, I will bring him a good end, lord,” Dvalarr said. Raef nodded, thinking of Alvar’s brother Eirik, who fought for the Hammerling. Visna and Dvalarr drifted away from the fire, leaving Vakre alone at Raef’s side.

  “How many families will be torn apart by this war? How many brothers will fight brother? How many sisters will smile at the deaths of their kin? Inge drew her last breath under the snow today,” Raef said, referring to the blonde sister who had freed them from Fengar. “Do you think she wept for the hatred she bore in her heart? Or do you think she spent her final moment wondering if her sister died first?” Raef stood and faced Vakre. “Would Eirik be glad to see his brother like this? Or would he think back to when they were boys, when they played and fought together, and wish they had walked a different path as men?”

&nb
sp; “Freyja herself could not grow a tree in barren soil, Raef. The bonds of blood do not run deep in some.” Vakre’s voice was bitter and Raef knew his mind was on his uncle and his mother, cast out and forsaken.

  “Hate is a strange thing. So often born out of so little. Erlaug, son of Hymar, do you remember him?”

  Vakre grimaced, his teeth glistening in the firelight. “I would not soon forget the lord of Grudenhavn and his son.”

  For a moment Raef stood once more in the forest of Balmoran, staring at a face full of enmity. Erlaug of Grudenhavn might have taken his life that moonlit night if not for Vakre.

  “Once we promised eternal friendship. We swore that nothing would come between us. We were eight and we were foolish. I remember being caught up in the moment of meeting him, knowing that one day we two would be lords. I had dreams of brave alliances and hard won battles. Four years later, he summered in my father’s hall, and we loathed each other from the moment he arrived all because I had not grown so tall as he and he was quick to be sure I knew it. I disarmed him and threw him flat on his back and that was the end of our dreams.” Raef was not sure why he spoke of Erlaug in that moment, but then the question came to him, the one he had never asked. “What did you do to him?”

  Vakre was quiet for a long moment before answering. “There is a plant that grows in the deepest forests in Finnmark, in the ravines that hardly see sunlight. My mother showed me these places when I was very young. A single seed is deadly.” Vakre looked at Raef. “I smeared the arrows with a paste made from one hundred such seeds.”

  “A foul way to die.”

  “For a foul man.” Vakre nudged a smoldering piece of wood back into the flames. “He needed to know agony.” The son of Loki frowned. “Be glad that you never knew your mother, Raef, for you never had to see her suffer.”