by T L Greylock
“The best of us have died and gone to the gods,” Raef said to Dvalarr, who had watched all in silence from the highest step. “We are left to face the end without their courage, their wisdom.”
“The end?” The Crow’s face was creased in confusion and Raef cursed his clumsy tongue for saying too much.
“The end of this war,” Raef said, “and whatever it brings.”
Twenty-Two
Death and destruction had come to Narvik. Fifty-two warriors had chosen to follow Raef south and their course took them first through the western edge of Silfravall and then on into Narvik, a place of narrow valleys and small farms, a land surrounded on two sides by harsh, barren peaks. And yet the soil was rich, nurtured by glacial water, and much coveted was the wool shorn from Narvik’s sheep.
The northern-most valley smelled still of smoke and fire, though the ashes were long since cooled. Four farms had perched on the hillsides, their pastures stretching from the valley floor and the stream that meandered there, to the high hills, home to eagles. But all four farms were burned, their buildings hollow shells or crumbled ruins. The carcasses of sheep and horses and cattle had been picked clean by scavengers, their bones littering the snow. The next valley was much the same, only Raef was not so sure all the bones belonged to animals. Once he thought he saw the grey, lithe form of the lynx slinking through the burned wreckage of a farm, for she had followed the warrior column as it wound away from the Vestrhall, but it turned out to be nothing more than an ash-smeared piece of cloth billowing in the breeze. He had not caught sight of the lynx since evening of the second day. She had come to Raef’s fire that night, sniffed his hand, curled once around each leg, and then she had trotted off into the darkness without a backward glance. In his heart, Raef knew she had claimed her independence, knew he would not see her again.
Raef spotted the watcher at dawn on their second day in Narvik lands. A lone rider stood on the ridge above them, silhouetted against the eastern sky, a tall spear piercing the roof of the world. The horse trotted out of sight not long after the camp began to stir, but three times that day Raef caught sight of the lone warrior as they continued south, pushing deeper into Narvik.
The rains came that night, cruel shards and pellets spit from the sky, coating cloaks and boots with a slick shell of ice. Beards froze, stiff and matted, and hoods drawn tight still did not keep the sting from cheeks and eyelids. Raef called an early halt and they spent a miserable night hunkered down under thick pine branches without fire and only small bites of dried venison to sustain them. But with the dawn came blinding sunshine and every twig, stone, and dangling, brown leaf blazed in the new light, for the world was made of ice and nothing else.
Raef broke through the pine branches above him, shattering the ice into countless slivers, and stepped out into the snow. Taking a deep breath, he massaged the back of his neck and watched the air exhaled from his lungs take shape and hover in front of his face for a moment before being dispelled. He turned back to the pine tree to wake Siv and show her the new day when an arrow pierced the hard surface of the snow at his feet. Raef froze and scanned the trees for the archer, but all was still.
“Clever,” he called out. “Lay your trap while we shelter from the storm. Most would not have the will to wait out the night in such weather. You show much fortitude, Bryndis of Narvik.”
Behind him, the pine branches parted as Siv was drawn out by the sound of Raef’s voice and he could hear others stirring from within their cocoons of ice.
“Stay where you are, Siv,” Raef murmured. But he could not warn them all and soon his warriors were stepping out into the open air. “Bryndis.” Raef’s voice rang out through the trees, made sharper, it seemed, by the ice. “I am not your enemy.”
“No.” The woman’s voice came from his left. “No, it would seem you are not.” Bryndis of Narvik stepped forth from her hiding place. She was dressed in dark leather and a cloak that glittered with ice, her pale white hair bound back in intricate braids, her eyes made fierce by charcoal paint sweeping away from her bottom lids. As she revealed herself, the trees came alive on all sides of Raef’s camp as warriors stepped forth. Raef let his gaze drift over them and saw that they were poorly clothed and poorly armed. They were farmers and fishermen dressed in leather, their hands used to holding rod and line or shears, not the tall spears they clutched to their chests. Warriors they might not be, but their faces were grim, their eyes determined, and Raef knew there was strength to be found in Narvik. “Skallagrim?”
“Yes.”
Bryndis came close to Raef, head tilted up as her eyes searched his for a moment, and then she held out a hand encased in a leather glove. Without taking his eyes from hers, Raef clasped her forearm and the tension slipped from the air.
**
“How did you know it was me? It could have been Fengar with an arrow aimed at you.” Bryndis had removed her gloves and stood with her hands over a fire. In the presence of such warmth, her cloak was melting and she brushed excess water from her shoulders.
“Fengar would not have had the will to endure the storm. But if he had, that arrow would have been aimed here,” Raef said, tapping a hand to his heart.
Bryndis nodded and then looked over her shoulder to where Raef’s men mingled with those of Narvik. “Is this all?”
“Vannheim has suffered much, lady. I made no demands on my people, only took those who wished to come. More might have been gathered, but that would have taken time I did not care to waste.”
Another nod from Bryndis. If she was disappointed by Raef’s numbers, she did not let on. “A hazard of having your people spread over such a vast amount of land. Others might beg the gods for such a dilemma.” She stared hard at Raef and then broke into a smile that flitted quickly away from her features. “We do not stand alone. Not quite. I have sought help from many. Garhold does not answer. Sverren of Bergoss sent back a frozen piece of horse shit instead of my messenger. Axsellund is silent. Silfravall says little. Leska of Kollumheim promises nothing.”
“Uhtred of Garhold is dead, lady. As is Torleif of Axsellund. Who rules in those lands, I cannot say, but we will have no help from them.”
Bryndis took this news with a twist of her lips and a nod.
“Who, then, answered your plea?”
“Balmoran.”
Raef frowned. “Last I saw Thorgrim Great-Belly, he was content to let his hall play host to a new king.”
“Perhaps at first, though he managed to avoid committing warriors to battle, the cunning whoreson. But the Great-Belly is failing and I do not think the decision to ride to my aid was entirely his.”
“What do you mean?”
“His son is lord in all but name.” Bryndis shot Raef a look of annoyance. “They quarrel endlessly.”
“And Fengar? Where is he?”
Bryndis turned solemn. “He is holed up a day’s ride from here. His position is well-defended.”
“His numbers?”
Bryndis shook her head. “Uncertain. Many.” She bit her lip. “Enough to burn a great many of my people’s homes.”
“We saw evidence of his passing as we came south. I hope some survived.”
“Most. They have fled to Narvik’s fortress and sit and wonder if they will starve.”
Raef nodded his sympathy. “Fengar slaughtered many good animals.”
Bryndis’s gaze hardened. “Fengar burned farms, yes, and killed those who might have opposed him, but you are wrong, Raef Skallagrim. My people butchered their own animals.”
“Why?”
“Better that the enemy be unable to feast on what we have lost, no?”
“A harsh way to live.”
“Narvik is small and has always fallen prey to wolves who would pluck up land the gods did not give them. The people here learned long ago that the world is harsh.” Her voice and words defied her years and Raef nodded his respect.
“You have a warrior’s spirit and a ruler’s head, Bryndis.”
“You flatter me. But tell me, do you speak as a king? Or a fellow warrior who knows what it is to rule?”
“What do you think?”
The smile threatened to return. “Perhaps I will reserve judgment.” Bryndis’s gaze narrowed and her face grew hard. “But I want to know, Skallagrim, I have made my intentions to you clear. When Fengar is dead, I will call another gathering. Will you hinder me?”
“No.”
“Bluntly spoken.”
“The truth is often blunt.”
“Is it, then? The truth?” Bryndis did not wait for Raef to answer. “Come. The Great-Belly will wish to see you.” She turned to go to her horse, a tall black creature waiting with little patience, but Raef called her back.
“Bryndis.”
She looked over her shoulder, eyebrows raised.
“Has a man called Vakre come this way?”
Bryndis shook her head. “I know of no such man.” She seemed about to speak, but the question remained behind her lips and she pulled herself into the saddle. “Have your men fall in, Skallagrim.”
**
The hall of Narvik was nestled in the elbow of two valleys that joined on the shores of a deep lake. Bryndis led the approach from the northwest, but their progress down the valley was halted while the lake still shimmered in the distance. A party of riders cascaded out of the trees, enclosing the Vannheim and Narvik warriors with a well-timed maneuver, but Bryndis did not seem alarmed. Raef caught a grimace twist her face and heard the sigh escape from her lips. Her gaze flickered to Raef but she kept silent as one rider pushed ahead of the rest.
“So, the lady of Narvik returns unscathed.” The speaker had the look of Thorgrim Great-Belly, but younger. His face, ruddy in the cold, was wide and already fleshy. His torso was rounded with muscle that would sag and turn to fat with time.
Bryndis smiled. “Do you have so little confidence in me?”
“I only wonder if such risks are necessary. Your safety is paramount.”
The smile remained but Raef could see it was strained. “Your concern is kind, Eiger, but my safety is no more important than that of any warrior. Much must be risked in war.” The fleshy man’s gaze shifted to Raef, who had pulled his horse up alongside Bryndis. The lady of Narvik answered the unasked question. “The lord of Vannheim has joined our fight.” Bryndis looked to Raef and nodded in the direction of the stranger. “Eiger of Balmoran, the Great-Belly’s son.”
Eiger’s gaze returned to Bryndis without comment. “Your hall awaits, lady.”
Bryndis flashed another smile at the Great-Belly’s son, but the moment he turned his horse and called for his men to ride, Raef was sure he heard her mutter, “Yes, do not forget whose hall, fat man.”
The hall was long and low, a solid, durable structure lacking embellishments and fine features. The walls that surrounded the village were tall and thick, but here and there the timbers were rotten away, their strength eaten at by time and wet weather, and Raef was not certain the gate would withstand even the most tepid of assaults. Inside, the village was overcrowded. Children dodged between men and horses, their grimy faces laughing at the shouts flung their way. Dogs backed away from the onslaught of hooves, tails tucked between their legs. Men and women watched the arrival of the warriors with calculating expressions, no doubt wondering how they might all expect to be fed. Raef took one look at the place and signaled for his warriors to halt. He angled his horse toward Skuli and Dvalarr, who had ridden through the gates at the rear.
“We will not burden the lady Bryndis. Set up our shelters beside the lake. As long as we are here, we will eat only our own provisions and what we can hunt or forage,” Raef said.
The Crow assured him it would be done and Raef found Siv. Leaving their horses with the rest, they continued on to the hall. The doors, thick slabs of smooth, darkened wood manned by a pair of boys, swung open to admit them, and Raef stepped into the hall of Narvik.
A single fire blazed in the middle, surrounded on three sides by tables. Eiger had already seated himself at one and was calling for meat and ale. Bryndis picked her gloves from her fingers, her pale hair gleaming silver in the light of the fire as she spoke in quiet tones to a woman of middle years. Only after the serving woman had turned away and Eiger had taken his first eager swallow of ale did Bryndis acknowledge Raef.
“The Great-Belly?” Raef asked.
Bryndis opened her mouth to answer, but Eiger spoke first, ale dripping into his beard.
“My father is not well,” Eiger said. He wiped an arm across his mouth, then drained his cup and called for more. “He keeps his healer close,” Eiger went on. “If a poultice or broth will save him, he will find it.”
“Is he dying?” Raef said.
“Are not we all dying?” Eiger seemed amused by his own question, then brushed it away. “The illness will claim him, I believe, though perhaps not until the spring thaw. If the gods favor him, he may see high summer.”
Raef had no liking for the son of the Great-Belly, but he tried to offer the sort of words a man might like to hear. “The gods will welcome him into Valhalla and give him a place of honor.”
“No, I think not.” Eiger was not smiling now. “He is a weak man, unworthy of high honor. Too long has he lived off the fame of others, too long has he gotten fat on riches bought not won.” The son seemed oblivious that those same riches were already weighing on him.
“Your father was a bold warrior in his youth,” Raef said. “Can he not be forgiven for seeking comforts later in life?”
“Youth is not enough. A man must live all his years, be they many or few, with purpose.”
“Perhaps your father holds to a purpose still. Have you asked him?”
Eiger’s face darkened, but any answer he might have was forgotten at the appearance of a servant bearing a platter of withered apples and winter plums.
“How many times must I tell you,” he said to the servant, who would not meet his eyes. “The lord of Balmoran requires meat.” He waved an arm, sending ale splashing to the floor. The servant bowed and scurried off. Eiger took a swig of ale and nodded at Raef with a conspiratorial eye. “My father thinks the gods hold fruit dearest above all things. But you and I know they crave meat. Would Thor nibble on an apple? No, he sinks his teeth into dripping haunches of elk.” Eiger laughed and did not seem to notice that Raef did not join in.
A new platter was brought, this one heavier than the last and piled high with cuts of venison and legs of pheasant. A plate of bread was also brought. Eiger did not hesitate and his fingers were soon smeared with the juice of a hunk of meat. A dribble ran down his chin and he did not bother to wipe it away. Raef watched but it was Bryndis who stepped out from the shadows, her face betraying nothing. She sat close to Eiger and refilled his cup, this time with sweet mead.
“How is it that you call yourself lord of Balmoran when your father yet draws breath?” Raef seated himself at the bench opposite Eiger and watched the other man through the shimmering heat above the flames. Siv remained standing at the edge of the hall, arms crossed, shoulders stiff, her dislike of Eiger obvious.
Eiger shrugged his meaty shoulders. “He has given much of that burden to me, it is true.” Thorgrim’s son cracked a smile and then shoved the pheasant leg between his teeth. “It is better this way. When my father dies, no man in Balmoran shall question me for they will already know me as lord.”
“How peaceful,” Raef said.
“Indeed. Tell me, Skallagrim, have you heard of Daegren Clefthand?”
Raef shook his head.
“The Clefthand makes his home in the south of my lands. He fishes in my lake and farms in my earth, and yet always has he pretended to be something other than a dog. Each summer, we hear rumblings of unrest in the south, of promises made by the Clefthand of uprising and bloodshed, and each summer my father sends a gift, gold more often than not, and the rumors die to nothing. When my father breathes his last breath, I shall look to the south and Daegren Clefthand will
regret his own birth.” Eiger’s voice had risen and his cheeks, flushed with anger and ale, showed his fervor. When Raef did not react, he went on. “It is I who will lead Balmoran to greatness, not that insolent dog. Odin knows this.”
Bryndis’s gaze met Raef’s from across the fire and though he caught a hint of aversion in her eyes, she smiled as she offered him meat and mead. Only when Bryndis herself began to eat did Raef do the same. A moment later, five hounds burst into the hall, each baying with eager voices, tails whipping back and forth. They skidded to a stop in front of Eiger and he laughed as he tossed them morsels of fatty meat and let one lick the grease from his fingers.
“Do you keep dogs, Skallagrim?”
“A few,” Raef said. “I prefer to hunt in silence.”
Eiger laughed again. “Hear that, girls? The lord of Vannheim is too good for the likes of you.” He did not seem offended. “Me, I like to feel my blood rise when the hounds begin to bay.”
When Bryndis had finished her mead, she stood and looked to Raef. “I will see if Thorgrim is well enough to join us.”
Raef was quick to rise to his feet. “Let me assist you.”
When they had left the smoke of the fire and Eiger’s noisy chewing behind, Bryndis led him through the back of the hall and out a small door. There, in the narrow passage between buildings, Raef caught the lady of Narvik’s sleeve.
“How many of your people will go hungry this night because of his great appetite?”
Bryndis flushed. “We are not so poor as that, not yet.”
“His hounds are at liberty to roam your hall, he commands your servants as though they are his own, and you sit by and smile and pour his mead. Does Bryndis rule here? Or Eiger?”