by T L Greylock
“Land.”
“I cannot make you lord of Finngale even if the Hammerling is defeated.”
Now Ailmaer laughed, a coarse sound as solid and unflinching as the man. “Lord? I have names enough, Skallagrim. I care not to rule over a hall. Nor do I seek a vast tract of land to farm and breed horses and sons on. No, I speak only of a single hill that looks out over the sea.”
“Any hill?”
“I am partial to one that sits on your northern coast.”
“Why?”
Ailmaer’s face remained blank. “The view is pleasing to me.”
“I think there is much you do not say.”
“Do you want the fifty swords I can give you?”
Raef grimaced, his mind turning as he tried to grasp Ailmaer’s motives. “Yes.”
“Then we are agreed.”
Raef’s hesitation was no more than a heartbeat. “We are.”
As one the warriors moved down the hill, navigating the descent with ease, and they thundered across the open ground to the Vestrhall’s gate, Raef at the head, his horse eagerly matching strides with Ailmaer’s larger mount.
Shouts from the watchtower heralded their arrival and the gate swung open to admit them. There to greet them was Vakre, rushing down the wooden ladder that led to the tower, and Dvalarr the Crow. The Crow’s face showed only delight at seeing additional shields to fill their wall; Vakre’s was awash with relief. But neither Raef nor Vakre could speak of what had passed in the night, for others were too close, too eager to speak to their lord and hail him for bringing reinforcements. But Vakre grasped Raef’s forearm, his grip firm and glad, and then wrapped Siv in a joyful embrace and Raef was pleased to see the son of Loki smile and forget his burdens, even for just that moment.
“The Hammerling has not come with the sun,” Dvalarr said, looking to Raef for guidance.
Raef glanced at Siv. “Perhaps Brandulf has not had a restful night.” Siv bit back a grin and Raef forced himself to give Dvalarr his full attention. “He will come, Crow, and we must be ready.”
“Everything is prepared, as you commanded, lord,” the Crow said.
Raef nodded. “Then the rest is in the hands of the gods.”
Dvalarr and several other warriors touched the Thor hammers they wore around their necks and then the Crow was barking orders and they rushed off to do as he said. Dvalarr and Ailmaer Wind-footed put their heads together and Raef watched the two hardened warriors walk off, discussing the role Ailmaer’s shields would play.
Raef was famished. Taking Siv’s hand, he led her to the Vestrhall’s kitchens. The serving men and women and most of the villagers who would not fight were already sequestered in the hall, a place of safety should the Hammerling break through the gates, so Raef and Siv helped themselves to bread baked at dawn, soft, smooth cheese, eggs boiled until the yolks were still creamy and then put out to chill in the snow, a warm, brown broth that had been left to bubble over the hearth, and thick slices of reindeer meat, dried and salted.
When they had eaten their fill, Raef and Siv joined Vakre at the walls, their gazes fixed on the eastern hills. The day grew from youth to middle age as the sun slid across the sky, and still the Hammerling did not show his face. The narrow stretch of land that separated the Vestrhall from the eastern hills remained empty, but if Raef closed his eyes he caught a glimpse of its fate, corpse-strewn, the pure white snow soiled with blood and urine, the crows descending to feast on the dead. Behind him, the village was still, the market empty. The warriors who waited atop and behind the walls spoke in hushed voices if they spoke at all. It seemed to Raef that they all stood upon a precipice, waiting, waiting for a fall that was inevitable with only the outcome yet to be discovered.
Only when the shadows had lengthened and twilight threatened to spill forth and cloak them all did the Hammerling’s spears and shields darken the edge of the trees opposite Raef. And then the strip of open land vanished beneath the marching feet of the Hammerling’s warriors. On and on they came, in greater number than Raef had feared.
His own men flocked to the walls, bows at the ready, arrows nocked. Some men touched the hammers at their throats, others placed steady, worn hands on the solid oak barrels that stood next to them on the wall walk, their lids cast aside to reveal a glossy, dark liquid that trembled at the slightest touch, sending shivers of rippled light playing across the surface. Some men knelt on the wall walk, oblivious to the army a bow shot away, though Raef was sure they yearned to peek over the walls. Instead, they were resolute, shoulders hunched, hands cupped to shield tiny flames, their sole purpose to keep the fires alive when the chaos started.
The Hammerling rode at the front, head held high, flanked by his son Asmund and Eirik of Kolhaugen. He raised his fist and the horde of men behind him ceased to swarm onward. Wind curled inland from the fjord, bringing the smell of fish and seaweed to Raef’s nostrils. It swept across the walls, tugging at the pair of green and gold banners that rose above the gate. The thick fabric snapped in the wind, a harsh sound carried to Raef on swift currents. The taut bowstrings to Raef’s left and right seemed to cry out for release while the timbers of the stout walls creaked, the ancient wood protesting the silence, the waiting. Dvalarr looked to Raef with a question in his eyes, but Raef shook his head.
“Skallagrim.” The Hammerling’s voice rang out and Raef was sure he felt the heartbeats of those on the wall quicken. “Has it come to this, then? Will your people name me king or will they die?”
Next to Raef, Dvalarr sucked in a great breath of air and Raef knew what the Crow would shout, knew it would seal the fates of many, knew he might stop it and yet he did nothing.
“Vannheim has a king, one of our choosing.” The Crow’s voice was thick with pride and defiance. “We will not kneel to another.”
A pause, one the swirling wind consumed. “At last I see the depth of your treachery, Skallagrim,” the Hammerling called. “At last I see why you fled from the burning lake. You sought to quench your own burning ambition.”
No, Raef might have said. He might have said that his only ambition was to see justice brought to his father’s killers. He might have said that the only seat he wanted was his father’s wooden chair in the Vestrhall, or even a rowing bench on a ship sailing west. He might have said much. Whether by the will of Odin or the will of something that dwelt within himself, Raef swallowed all the words that lingered in his throat. He could feel his blood coursing through his veins, feel each breath he took surge into his lungs, feel his heart beat with the anticipation of battle. His sword and axe sang to him, whispering of death and bloodshed, and it seemed to him their voices were joined by those of his ancestors, those who had not knelt to any king.
“I will ask once more. Do we fight or do we bury the axe between us?” the Hammerling called.
“We fight.”
The roar that rose up from the warriors atop the wall was echoed by the voices of the Hammerling’s horde below. Spears clashed against shields, naked steel slid from scabbards, and the snow writhed with the long, unnatural shadows of the warriors spread before the walls. Raef looked to Dvalarr and gave him a nod. The Crow bellowed an order that was carried down the wall by other voices, and in response the archers bent down to hold their pitch-smeared arrows to the sheltered flames.
The flaming arrows streaked through the darkening sky and for a moment there was silence as all eyes tracked them. As they fell, the Hammerling’s men formed hasty shield walls and many arrows thudded uselessly into the snow, their flames snuffed out in an instant. But others pierced flesh, their steel heads burying into the unprotected chests and legs of those warriors who had been too slow to seek cover. And here and there small fires bloomed amid the clusters of men as the arrows sprouted on the painted shields. The archers on the walls fired at will, their keen eyes seeking those who scrambled yet for safety, or gaps between carelessly positioned shields, but it was only a moment before the Hammerling’s army was safely ensconced behind their shi
elds and every arrow that flew was an arrow wasted.
“Hold,” Dvalarr called. He turned to Raef. “To the gate?”
“Yes.” Raef had hoped to maintain their position of strength and safety behind the walls for as long as possible while whittling away at the Hammerling’s men, but the Crow was right. Better to meet them now than wait until the Hammerling had a ram at the gates and they were penned in with few options. The inevitable clash of shield on shield was at hand.
Leaving a handful of archers on the wall to pick off strays, Raef descended to the gate where the bulk of his warriors waited. They filled the small market and the narrow passages between houses, their spears held in tight grasps, gazes flickering from face to face as each warrior fought off nervous fear.
Raef looked at them, trying to gauge the strength of their minds and the steadfastness of their hearts, and was pleased to see the fear in their eyes tempered by resolve.
“Once before we lost the Vestrhall to invaders,” Raef said, his voice ringing out as the first stars unveiled themselves in the sky. “Never again.” A shout of defiance swelled among the warriors and the ground trembled with the thundering rhythm of spears battered against the earth. “Fight for the man who stands at your side and let the bastards outside these gates feel the fire of Vannheim’s wrath. He who falls this night will go to the gods.” The screams were deafening, a sound born from the union of fear and bloodlust. Raef turned to the gate, feeling the press of men behind him, the shouts of the captains filling his ears. And then the heavy timbers were lifted and the gates swung open and the screaming warriors rushed past Raef, swarming through the gate.
A hand on Raef’s arm pulled him up and then Siv’s arms were around his neck, her mouth pressed hard against his in a fierce kiss that sent shivers flooding across Raef’s skin. When he opened his eyes, her green ones were staring at him, their depths pulling him in so far that for a moment he forgot about the warriors preparing to die, forgot about the Hammerling, forgot, even, about Hauk of Ruderk, who still lived.
Without a word between them, they joined the crush of warriors and passed through the gate, filling their place at the center of the growing shield wall. Raef pushed to the front until he stood shoulder to shoulder with Vakre and Dvalarr, their shields overlapping, and Siv tucked herself behind him, spear and shield in hand, sword at her belt.
The shield wall stretched south to the shore of the fjord and north to the trees and the steep hillside that rose out of the land next to the Vestrhall’s walls. Three shields deep it went and Raef looked down the line, then out across the empty ground to the Hammerling’s force. With the threat of arrows reduced, the Hammerling’s men had formed a single wall, the same length as Raef’s, or near enough. No doubt the Hammerling had five or six rows of warriors waiting behind the first. For every man who went down, another would step over their fallen sword-brother and take his place. For a moment, Raef swept his gaze the length of the line. Searching for Hauk of Ruderk was as natural to him as breathing, but Raef could not afford to lose himself to his vengeance, not yet. With a deep breath, Raef focused on the Hammerling instead. He watched Brandulf’s mouth open, watched him shout a command, watched as the warriors began to churn through the snow. Raef’s heartbeat slowed with each step they took. Around him, voices called for the line to brace, and then at last the thunder of clashing shields filled the twilight.
Raef dug in, his feet slipping on the snow-slick ground, Siv’s shield pressing against his back, but the force of the collision pushed him back and his own shield slammed into the side of his head. Beside him, Vakre and Dvalarr had also lost ground, but as three they surged forward, regaining a step. A spear thrust beneath Raef’s shield, just missing the flesh above his knee, and an axe came over the top, hooking onto the iron-edged wood and threatening to tear it from Raef’s grip. Shifting to his right, Raef found an opening and thrust up with his short sword. He felt the blade strike bone, heard a scream, and the axe hung limply from Raef’s shield. Already he was hacking at another exposed limb.
A bellow of pain from Raef’s left told him Dvalarr had taken a wound, but the Crow did not stagger, did not falter, and the press of body against body was endless. Raef’s world was reduced to his shield arm, straining to give him room enough to work the short sword, and the trampled snow beneath his feet. A sword sliced through the shields and glanced off Raef’s forearm, but Raef jabbed forward with his shield, trapping the warrior’s sword and hand in the gap. From behind Raef, Siv hammered down on the man’s knuckles with the hilt of her sword while Raef stabbed under his shield into the man’s groin. The warrior dropped to his knees, the sword falling to the snow, and Raef shoved the dying man aside with his boot, earning himself a brief reprieve from the constant crush. But another warrior surged forward to fill the gap.
They were losing ground. Bit by bit the Hammerling’s wall was pushing them back, back, and soon they would be pressed up against the timber walls with no room to swing a sword. They would be hacked to bits.
“We must move forward,” Raef shouted, his voice caught in the roar of battle, and for a moment he was sure Vakre had not heard, but the son of Loki finished off an opponent with a grimace and caught Raef’s eye. Dvalarr gathered his voice in a yell worthy of the giants and fresh energy swelled from the rows of warriors behind Raef. One step, then two, finally a third, but the shields began to loosen, the warriors no longer in step as they battled for ground. Raef, tucked tight between Dvalarr and Vakre still, could feel it, could feel the line weaken, and knew soon it would break, leaving every warrior to fight alone.
Vakre stumbled against Raef, caught with the haft of an axe, the head narrowly avoided, and went to one knee. When he rose, the gap between them had grown, and suddenly the wall was gone. Raef slashed into his opponent’s shoulder, severing into the collarbone, the battle-joy contained in his gut flowing forth to fill his chest, his limbs, as he savored the freedom to move as he was meant to move. Raef dragged the short sword through flesh and bone until he had carved out a gaping hole in the warrior’s neck, then yanked the small blade free. The warrior fell to the ground and Raef dropped the short sword, transferred his shield to his right arm, and drew the sword that sung a song of death in his ear.
The steel song hummed around him and warriors and shieldmaidens died, some in empty silence, some with dreadful noises, but Raef knew only the feel of the blade in his hand, heard only his own heart beat with calm certainty, and dealt death to all who came within reach. And yet he knew it was not enough, knew that his men were too few, knew it was only a matter of moments before the enemy closed around him.
The thunder of hooves came to him like a wave rolling in from the sea in the same moment the hairs on the back of his neck stood up against a searing heat. He whirled and saw the flames envelop Vakre, flushing out from his torso to consume him from head to toe, banishing the warriors who had pressed close to him, and then the horsemen rushed out of the darkness, their spears impaling the enemy from behind, for Ailmaer Wind-footed had joined the battle at last, sweeping through the dark to fall upon the Hammerling’s rear.
A shout turned Raef in time to raise his shield and catch an axe arcing toward his head. The bearer of the axe tried to rip the head free, but the steel was caught fast and Raef was too quick. He slammed his shield into the warrior’s face and brought his sword down to plunge into his chest. As the warrior dropped to the ground and Raef wrenched his sword free, his gaze caught on a face, lit with Vakre’s fire, and he felt fury rage in his heart.
Hauk of Ruderk was unscathed, his blade smeared with the blood of dead men, and he was close, so close. Raef raced forward, his boots sliding on snow and blood, but a shadowy figure, untouched by Vakre’s light, hurled itself out of the darkness and planted itself between Raef and Hauk. A pair of eyes blazed out from beneath the hood, eyes set in a pale face, and Raef faltered, for there were stars in those eyes, and cold hatred.
“Visna?”
At last Vakre’s flames she
d light on the shadows and Raef felt horror slide down the length of his throat and settle deep in his belly.
“Eira.”
Her throat was a ruin, crusted in dried blood. Her body trembled as if coursing with the strength of a sea at storm and those star-filled eyes bore into Raef so sharply that he already felt her sword pierce him. And yet she did not strike, did not lash out. Her head turned from him to Hauk, and she seemed a wild animal caught in a trap, unsure which way to run. Only when a Vannheim warrior launched himself at Hauk did she move, her sword, a dark thing that repulsed the firelight as she herself seemed to, darting out and opening the warrior’s chest from groin to neck. Then Eira grabbed Hauk and they were gone, vanishing into nothing.
Raef stared at the blackness they had left behind but a surge of heat called him back to the battle and he turned to help Vakre. But the son of Loki was far from harm.
Vakre hung in the air above the battle, floating higher than the top of the wall, wreathed in flames so hot and white they brought day to the battlefield and Raef was forced to shield his eyes as he stared up at his friend. Beneath him, warriors of both armies cowered in fear. Smoke curled from more than one cloak and Raef could see one man clutching at his arm, the skin raw and bleeding. Raef took a step forward, but the heat was too intense and he dared not go closer.
The battle ground to a halt as all eyes turned to the fire in the sky and it was not until Siv appeared at Raef’s side, her fingers brushing his elbow, that Raef stirred from the depths of his astonishment. He turned to her, scanning her for injury and finding little more than a slash on her upper arm. He wiped a smatter of blood from her cheek, and then Ailmaer Wind-footed was beside them. He dismounted and his horse, skittish under the flames, pranced away. Ailmaer held tight to the reins and lowered his eyes from Vakre.
“We have the Hammerling.” The older man was streaked with sweat, the Thor’s hammer at his neck gleaming in the light of Vakre’s fire. Raef saw one hand twitch as though he might reach up to clasp the metal for reassurance, but the hand stayed at his side and Ailmaer kept his gaze on Raef.