by T L Greylock
A hand on Raef’s shoulder nearly earned a blade in the ribs, but it was only Rufnir.
“Go,” Rufnir said, indicating the path ahead. “We will keep them dancing long enough for you to get up there.” Before Raef had a chance to reply, Rufnir slid away, five men trailing close behind him, and moved to the east toward the wide wagon path where the warriors were sure to see them.
Raef moved on, sprinting now and followed by his pack of remaining warriors, his ears straining to pick out the first sounds of battle below them while his eyes looked only ahead. The shouts came quickly, surprise, questions, then an indistinguishable clamor as the steel song began.
The steps to the hall were watched by a single man, but his eyes were focused solely on the woman straddling his lap and his hands were engaged far from his axe as Vakre rushed forward and silenced him. Blood gushed from his throat and the woman screamed and twisted away in desperation, but Vakre caught her up and held her fast with a hand over her mouth. Raef stared hard at the woman, who was a stranger to him, and put a finger to his own lips. She nodded vigorously beneath Vakre’s grasp and Raef signaled her release. She fled into the darkness and disappeared down the hill.
Raef turned his attention to the door. Behind it, the hall was bursting with music and drunken laughter and Raef would have given an eye, like the Allfather himself, to see what went on behind the walls, to see if Visna was safe, if Isolf was enamored.
“Will she get him out?” Dvalarr asked in Raef’s ear.
“We do not have the time to wait anymore, Raef,” Vakre said.
Raef hesitated, his heart pounding madly, threatening to leap out of his chest as he saw his chance at taking Isolf grow smaller. Visna was meant to draw Isolf out, to lead him away from the crowd and into Raef’s waiting arms. But the commotion down the hill was growing louder and Raef did not doubt that Rufnir was surrounded on all sides, for men from the main gate would surely have joined the fight. The six warriors would not last long.
“Then we will go in and fetch him.”
There was no telling how many men Isolf had with him in the hall. A good number might be too drunk to fight, but Raef had only fifteen men left at his back.
“Follow me.”
Raef led the men around the side of the hall, seeking a different entrance that would mask their arrival.
The kitchen yard was empty. The well and the chicken coop and the winter garden were as Raef remembered, but the moment he stepped from the shadows, the kitchen door opened and a short, round woman stepped out, dusting flour from her hands as she went. Raef was caught out in the open and she squinted to make him out.
“No scraps to be had here. Best try the front door.” She sounded tired and one hand went to her hip, as though it pained her. Raef didn’t move. “You hear me? Be off with you.”
Raef smiled to himself, for she had said those words to him as a boy often enough. “Perhaps you could spare something.”
She went still and Raef could see her frown. “Who are you?”
Raef meant to answer, meant to give his name, but he found he could only step forward and let the lights of the kitchen wash over his face.
Darri’s hands went to her mouth and Raef could see her sway. He stepped forward and caught her beneath the arm. She stared up at him, her pale blue eyes wracked with shock and tears.
“You died.”
“Is that what he says?”
Darri wrapped her arms around Raef’s waist in a sudden embrace, the top of her head tucked under his chin. Raef smiled and kissed her hair.
“It is good to see you, Darri.” Raef took her hands and drew back so he could look down into her joyful face. “But I must not linger. There is work to be done here.”
Darri’s joy vanished, replaced with malice. “You mean to kill him.”
“Yes.”
The old woman wiped the tears from her cheeks and nodded, as firm and resolute as a warrior. “Half of them are so drunk you could dunk them in the fjord and they would hardly notice.”
“How many are warriors?”
Darri thought for a moment. “No fewer than thirty.”
“Armed, all?”
Darri snorted. “If they can tell their swords from their spoons, yes.”
An urgent gesture from Vakre reminded Raef they were running out of time. He smiled once more at the old cook and then hurried into the kitchen, the men at his heels.
The passageway between the kitchen and the hall was narrow and stuffy and smelled of bread. Raef opened the door to the hall a crack, shedding a beam of light onto the faces behind him, and peered out.
Isolf sat at the high table, a horn of mead in one hand and a handful of Visna’s golden hair in the other. She was perched on his lap, her back to Raef, and Isolf was laughing, head thrown back, that mane of red hair shaking with his delight.
The source of his mirth was in front of the high table. There, two men were stripped to the waist and smeared in remnants of food. The fats and oils from the pig carcass hanging on a spit over a low fire now gleamed on their skin and they were locked in a half-hearted, drunken hold, each trying to force the other to the ground. One turned and vomited over his shoulder, causing Isolf to laugh once more, and then the man slumped against his opponent’s chest. Together they went down in a heap and the men at the tables banged their fists and hollered for a new bout.
To Isolf’s right, a dark-haired woman sat stiff and straight in her high-backed chair, eyes staring out into the hall, but from the hard line of her jaw and the taut muscles in her neck, Raef was sure that Aelinvor, daughter of Uhtred of Garhold and conspirator in her father’s murder, was blind to the antics of the men, all her attention focused on ignoring Isolf and Visna beside her.
Raef removed Visna’s sword from his belt and handed it to Dvalarr.
“See that this gets into the lady Visna’s hands.”
The Crow gave a solemn nod and then Raef turned his attention to the rest of the men huddled in the passageway. They were all sweating, their faces gripped with the knowledge that the real fight was just ahead. Raef knew each name, each place called home. Even the men of Axsellund who had chosen to remain were no longer strangers and their faces were etched into Raef’s skull.
“Some of us will go to Valhalla this night. Know that whatever the outcome, you have earned your place there. The gods will rejoice to see you,” Raef said, his voice nearly drowned out by the deafening noise in the hall. “May Thor bring strength to your arms and bite to your blades.”
Without another word, Raef turned and strode into the hall. For a moment, his presence went unnoticed. But in that moment, the slaughter began.
Isolf was the first to react as Raef plunged his sword into an unsuspecting warrior, but Visna was faster. The Valkyrie twisted and jabbed her elbow up into Isolf’s throat. Isolf roared, reaching blindly for her, and the chair toppled over backward. Visna landed on top but Isolf’s strength was great and they grappled for a moment before Isolf broke free and scrabbled away from Visna. Finding his feet, Isolf, his face red with rage and drink, drew his sword and screamed for men to gather close. Visna snarled and might have gone after him, but Raef, separated from Isolf by more than one table, shouted at her to fall back. Dvalarr reached her side and extended the dark sword to her, hilt first. The Valkyrie grasped it, spit in Isolf’s direction, and then dropped back to join Raef’s line of warriors as they began to wreak havoc in the hall while men scrambled for weapons and cover. Aelinvor, unarmed and not practiced in the ways of a shieldmaiden, withdrew to the closest wall and looked for protection from Isolf, who made no move to reach her side.
The first man’s death had been met with angry roars, but Raef’s sword carved into unprotected flesh twice more before any resistance came his way. A pair of warriors lurched at him, one barehanded, the other thrusting with a knife. Raef ducked the first and sliced upwards into the second. His blade stuck and was ripped from his grasp as the man fell to the floor. Raef let the sword go and drew his
axe as he spun to face the first, empty-handed man again. A quick chop and a kick to the chest sent the man reeling, blood spurting from a gash in his wool shirt.
A new opponent launched himself at Raef with a knife. Raef braced and then was swept sideways as Eyvind and a warrior plowed into him. Losing his balance, Raef went to his knees. The knife slashed down. He caught the blade on his leather forearm guard, then hacked his axe up into the man’s groin. The axe wedged into flesh and bone while the man screamed, then ripped out through his belly. A spray of guts and blood spattered across Raef’s face. He blinked and moved on as the screaming warrior fell to the floor.
The hall was awash in blood by the time Raef reached the far wall. Behind him was a trail of savaged corpses. Isolf had retreated into a corner near the high table, surrounded by a cluster of warriors, but the rest of his men were dead, dying, or too drunk to have noticed the fight.
“Isolf!” Raef’s voice thundered across the hall as he leapt upon the closest table. He held out his arms, both streaked with the blood of other men, his axe haft slippery with gore. “I am the wolf song.” He began to walk the length of the table, his gaze fixed on his cousin’s red hair and fearful, enraged face. Behind him, Vakre followed off his left shoulder, Dvalarr the right. “I am the serpent breath.” Each word rang off the timbers of the vaulted ceiling. When he reached the end of the table, he paused. “I am your death.”
Isolf pushed past the warriors that huddled around him. His sword was clean, the steel still bright, but he did not return it to its scabbard. He looked up at Raef from under his thick eyebrows.
“If your men stand down now, they will live,” Raef said.
Isolf hesitated, then gestured to his sword, unstained by blood. “And me? If I draw no blood this night, what of me, cousin?” There was something still of his old charisma, his easy nature that had tamed Raef’s suspicions.
“Nothing you say or do can change your fate now.”
Isolf’s face hardened with resignation and he nodded over his shoulder. One by one, the warriors sheathed their weapons and, on Raef’s orders, disarmed themselves. Vakre watched with sharp eyes while two of Raef’s men collected armfuls of swords and axes.
“There, cousin,” Isolf said. “You have won the hall.” He smiled, a tight, anxious thing that showed the frayed edges of his composure. “Shall we go to the yard and I will place my head upon a block for you?”
“No, cousin, there will be no swing of an axe. Not for you.” Raef hopped off the table and strode close to Isolf. He circled around him once, then came to stand in front of him, so close their noses almost touched. “The eagle is coming for you, Isolf.”
Now the fear ran rampant over Isolf’s face and he shuddered visibly. His jaw moved up and down as he gaped at Raef. “Please,” he whispered at last.
But Raef turned away, heedless of the plea. He called out for Isolf’s men to be ushered from the hall and Isolf was bound hand and foot and roped to one of the tree-shaped pillars.
“Crow.” Raef beckoned for Dvalarr. “Take those who are not wounded. Secure the gate. Find Rufnir. If he lives.”
Only when the Crow left the hall did Raef exhale a long, trembling breath, and only then did the battle-lust seep away from his bones and his heart. In Dvalarr’s wake, a flurry of movement caught Raef’s eye as Aelinvor stirred and reached for a knife on the high table. Vakre snatched her wrist just as her hand closed around the antler handle. She strained against his hold for a moment, her heartbeat visible in her neck, her nostrils flared wide as she debated her course of action, and then she released the knife. Vakre led her around the high table and sat her down on the bench closest to Raef. She held her head high still, but her gaze was cast down and her knuckles were white from the force of her own grip as she clutched one hand to the other. Raef could not help but think of how young she was and he wondered if she would have rather stayed in Garhold.
But it was Aelinvor who spoke first, her eyes rising to meet his. “What will be my punishment, lord?”
“Is that what you want? For me to strike off your head? Leave you as carrion for crows?”
She rose in a stiff, jerky motion, anger brightening her face. “What I wanted was power. For you. For me.”
“Your ambition killed your father.”
“His death freed me.”
“Freed you for what? To sit beside my cousin and watch men drink until they cannot see straight? To see Isolf lust after another woman after making promises to you? To know that your ambition had cost you much and earned you nothing?”
Aelinvor was shaking now and Raef could see he had struck upon the truth. “You are to blame, Raef Skallagrim. And when you kill me, my death will sit heavy upon you.”
“Perhaps I will let you live, and then we will see who is burdened with guilt.” Fear crept into Aelinvor’s face for the first time and Raef had her taken to a sleeping chamber where she might be kept under watch until he decided what to do with her.
In her absence the hall was quiet and Raef closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, but he could not savor his victory, not yet.
Three of his men were badly wounded. One clutched at a hole in his side, but his pale, sweaty face told Raef he would not last. Another had taken a blow to the face that had lopped off half his jaw. He was conscious, though just, and seemed oblivious of all, even the pain. He kept attempting to get to his feet, and did not understand why others were trying to keep him still. The third might live, Raef thought, though he would never heft a weapon again. His right arm was slashed to ribbons and the wounds went deep, severing tendons and ligaments. Eyvind was already at work wrapping the arm with cloth, but it would need stitching.
Raef looked to Vakre, who bore no sign of injury, but the son of Loki’s face was full of concern.
“Are you hurt?”
Raef looked down at himself and saw that he was coated in blood. He wiped a hand over his face but only succeeded in smearing more sticky wetness across his forehead.
“I do not think any of it is mine. Come, we must see to the village,” Raef said. Leaving Eyvind and Visna to watch over Isolf and the wounded, Raef and Vakre stepped out into the night once more.
The village was quiet but for the frantic barking of a single dog. Raef hurried down the stone steps and began to wind down the wagon path. As he went, he noticed that a few doors were cracked open and he thought he caught glimpses of faces staring back at him.
He found the Crow kneeling in the middle of the wagon path halfway down the hill. Several bodies lay in the snow and dirt around him. Dvalarr straightened at the sight of Raef.
“Some were taking for the hills,” the Crow said, gesturing down to the main gate, whose torches flickered in the distance. “Gullveig is keeping them under guard. The rest are dead.” A fresh cut ran down Dvalarr’s face but the Crow seemed not to notice. He glanced down to the body at his feet and Raef followed his gaze.
Rufnir was still alive. His breaths were shallow and forced, his eyes unfocused, though they settled on Raef as he knelt on the ground beside him. A wound gaped high on Rufnir’s inner thigh, the flesh matted and tangled with cloth. A dark stain had already spread down to his knee and the snow beneath him was crimson. His right hand clutched the handle of his sword and the left stump reached for Raef as he choked on thick blood that spilled down his chin.
Raef took Rufnir’s stump and held it close to his chest, his eyes stinging with tears as he watched his old friend die.
“The Vestrhall is ours, Ruf,” Raef whispered, his voice hoarse. “You have fulfilled your promise.”
Something that was either a smile or a grimace of pain twitched on Rufnir’s blood-streaked face and Raef could only hope his words had been heard and understood.
“Go in peace and sail the seas of Asgard. The gods await you. As does your brother.” Raef leaned over and placed his lips on Rufnir’s forehead. When he drew back, Rufnir had gone still and his blue eyes stared at nothing. Raef closed the eyelids and detache
d the hunting horn that hung from Rufnir’s belt. He got to his feet and handed it to Dvalarr.
“Sound the horn, Crow. The people must learn what has happened. They must know it is safe.”
Raef retreated to the stone steps, flanked by the surviving warriors. Dvalarr raised the horn to his lips and let loose a single note that drove into the darkness. The Crow let the sound die away before repeating it and the second note was still echoing in the hills when the first, curious, wary faces drew near.
Fathers kept close grips on their children. Mothers looked over their shoulders with nervous eyes. But as more and more of them caught sight of Dvalarr, his bald head shining in the torchlight, of Vannheim warriors they knew by name and face, and, last of all, Raef standing tall at the top of the steps, the crowd began to murmur and the worry on their faces turned to wonder.
Raef opened his mouth to speak, but a voice in the crowd shouted first.
“Hail, Skallagrim!”
Others echoed the call, their voices rising in the dark until Raef raised a hand, asking for silence.
“There is a Skallagrim in Vannheim once more.” This was met by a loud cheer. “The traitor and oathbreaker Isolf Valbrand will be put to death. And then we will mourn our dead and rebuild what we have lost. I ask only one thing. That you might forgive me. I was blind and Vannheim suffered for it.”
“We are the heart of Ymir,” Dvalarr roared.
“The heart of Ymir!”
“Blood of the giant!”
After the crowd quieted, Raef descended the steps and greeted his people by name. Hoyvik the blacksmith was there, though he walked only with the aid of a wooden crutch. Old Grandmother, who had inked the wolf onto Raef’s shoulder, smiled, her pale, delicate hands steady and cool against his blood-stained cheeks. Then came a young woman, Hanna, the sister of Finnolf Horsebreaker, and, but for the length of her brown hair and the slenderness of her arms, she could have been mistaken for the young captain who had been slain outside the walls on the night of Isolf’s treachery. There was no sign of her young sister, Tolla, and Hanna’s eyes were full of grief. Ulli the steward was as trim and tidy as ever, though it seemed to Raef the neat little man had lost the sprightliness in his step.