The Blood-Tainted Winter

by T L Greylock

  Five

  Raef continued on, prevented from altering his course by a steep drop-off to his left that ran across the face of the hill. A sharper, more direct path to the tents below was unavailable. Alert now, he listened for the telltale noises of men, trying to determine how many were at his heels, but they moved with care and he knew he had been fortunate to hear them at all amid the chorus of insects, birds, and small animals.

  He was armed and they would know it. The axe rested against his lower back, a reassuring friend, his sword hung from his belt, ready to sing if he drew it, and two knives at his other hip would deal death in cramped spaces. They would attempt to overwhelm him, falling upon him from all sides in a coordinated attack. The horse might serve to shield Raef’s back, if they did not slash open its throat.

  Raef could see the torches of the tent city through the trees, and there, a spear’s throw ahead of him, the descent turned gentle. If he could reach that point, the horse would carry him ahead of his pursuers and to the safety of the firelight.

  The knife spun past him, a flash of silver in the moonlight, missing his shoulder by a hand’s breadth. A poor throw. Raef heard, rather than saw, it skitter off a tree trunk ahead and land on the forest floor, but he was already spinning and drawing his sword and axe. The steel glinted cold and dark, the edges thirsting for blood. A second knife hurtled toward Raef and he ducked and rolled forward, coming to his feet again to meet the dark shape and bright sword that followed on the heels of the knife.

  The swords clashed and shivered, but Raef was still moving forward and his axe cleaved into the attacker’s ribs, catching in leather and flesh. The yowl of pain split the night and the man brought his sword around in an attempt to slash Raef, but Raef was gone and out of reach. To stay in one place for too long was to invite death.

  The second attacker sprang from a bush, a war cry on his lips and an axe in hand. Raef ducked the first swing and hacked at the back of the man’s thighs with his own axe, then sliced up into the warrior’s thick arm with his sword. The blade caught in the leather, but had already cleaved halfway through the limb, rendering it useless. Wrenching his sword free, Raef spun to face the third warrior and met the eyes of Erlaug, son of Hymar, and the hatred he saw there was thick and venomous.

  “You think to slaughter me like some beast of the hunt, Erlaug?” Raef, without a scratch on him, was bursting with the battle song and he held his arms wide, inviting Erlaug to attack. “My blades have drunk the blood of your friends.” His sword and axe shone red in the moonlight. “But they thirst yet for yours.”

  With a snarl, Erlaug sprang forward at the same moment Raef heard a shuffle from behind that told him the second warrior was not finished with him. The two converged, the wounded man armed now with a knife in his other hand, the right arm dangling at his side. Blood poured from the wound and he would not last long, Raef knew, but long enough, perhaps, to draw Raef’s blood.

  There was no time to move, no time to scramble up the slope and give himself the higher ground, no time to put Erlaug and the other warrior in line with each other so they could not attack at the same time. And so Raef chose. Turning his back on the wounded warrior, Raef faced Erlaug head on, beating him back with sword and axe, his furious strokes countered with desperate strength. Raef’s speed took its toll, though, and Erlaug slipped on damp earth. He kept his feet, but not fast enough to avoid the bite of Raef’s sword in his leg. Staggering, he went to one knee and Raef moved to finish him but fiery pain in his calf stopped him in midstride. Stumbling, reeling, the forest became a blur. Raef saw the wounded warrior sprawled on the ground, a knife wet with Raef’s blood clutched in his hand as his own life’s blood pumped out to stain the moss red. Granted a reprieve, Erlaug, pale and unsteady, was on his feet, and he limped to Raef, ready to strike a killing blow.

  The arrow buried itself in Erlaug’s chest and he looked down at it in wonder and confusion, sword poised in hand. The second arrow sprouted not far from the first, grey fletching quivering, and this one dropped Erlaug, though he seemed not to realize it for he still tried to swing at Raef. The sword arced harmlessly through the air and Erlaug swayed on his knees, the surprise still etched on his face.

  Raef scrambled backward, trying to pinpoint the new threat, but the hooded figure that strode out of the trees ignored him and went straight to Erlaug. He bent over the wounded man and, his hand on Erlaug’s cloak to keep him upright, spoke in his ear. When the man stepped away, Raef saw Erlaug’s face was white from something other than pain.

  Only then did the hooded figure turn to Raef and by this time the trees were alive with torches as men were drawn from the tents by the sounds of battle. Raef’s rescuer swept off his hood.

  “Vakre,” Raef said. Vakre hooked a hand under Raef’s arm and helped him to his feet. A sturdy tree trunk behind Raef was a welcome support.

  “I am sorry I came so late.”

  “I would be a smear of blood and flesh upon this dirt if not for you.” Raef searched Vakre’s eyes. They were calm and still and told of nothing. “What brought you here?”

  Vakre looked over his shoulder at Erlaug, who seemed to have turned to stone. When he looked back at Raef, he did not answer the question. “There will be trouble for both of us. One man dead,” Vakre gestured to the warrior who had stabbed Raef, “one dying,” a nod toward the first attacker who lay where Raef had felled him, “and a lord’s son badly wounded, perhaps never to recover.” There was a great deal of pleasure in Vakre’s voice as he said those last words. “It is no small thing to act on a blood feud at a gathering.”

  “Trouble for one of us, you mean,” Raef said, limping to Erlaug and yanking the arrows from his chest. Erlaug moaned and slumped over. Raef handed the arrows to Vakre. “Go,” he said. “They will be upon us soon.” The torches were close and the voices of men distinct. Vakre did not take the arrows. “Go,” Raef said again, “this was my work and mine alone.”

  “I will not let you take the blame for this.”

  “I owe you that and more,” Raef said. Vakre wrapped his hand around the arrow shafts but still he hesitated. “I am the son of the Skallagrim in Vannheim. They would do far worse to you than they will to me.” Raef stared hard at Vakre. “You were never here.” Vakre held Raef’s gaze, then gave a single nod that said more than words. He turned and vanished into the trees.

  The torches converged on Raef a moment later, revealing the aftermath of the fight. The faces that circled around Raef were mostly unknown to him, but there was one that seethed with anger at the sight of his son lying wounded at Raef’s feet. Only strong arms and a commanding voice kept Hymar, lord of Grudenhavn, from leaping to tear out Raef’s throat.

  The voice that held Hymar at bay belonged to a tall, lean-faced lord. He looked at Raef, then at the scene around them. His gaze lingered over Erlaug’s pale, sweaty face.

  “What happened here?” The question was directed at Raef.

  “They attacked me.”

  “Your name?”

  “Raef, son of Einarr of Vannheim.”

  The tall lord asked the same of Erlaug, who did not answer, and, though he stared at the lord’s face, seemed to see nothing. Hymar answered for him.

  “He is my son and young Skallagrim speaks lies.”

  Raef fumed at Hymar’s words but held his tongue.

  “It is the dead of night, Raef, son of Einarr,” the tall lord said. “What brought you out here so late?”

  “I sought solitude.”

  “And you?” Again Erlaug did not answer or seem to comprehend. The tall lord peered into Erlaug’s blank eyes then frowned and called over three of his own men. He pointed at Erlaug’s companions, one dead, the other dying. “See to them,” he directed. “Hymar, do with your son as you will.” One warrior slung the dead man over his shoulder, the other two helped the one with the wound in his side to his feet and dragged him down the hill to the tents. Hymar did the same for his son, cursing Raef every step of the way. When only a
few onlookers remained, the lord turned his attention back to Raef.

  “One dead. The other will not last the night.” The lord’s eyes were grey and hard in the torchlight. “You have much to answer for.”

  “Torrulf!” Einarr Skallagrim’s voice cut through the darkness and suddenly he was at Raef’s side, a group of Vannheim men behind him. “I will take my son, now.”

  Torrulf Palesword nodded. “As is your right. But he has shed blood, Einarr. You know this will not be the end of it.”

  Raef caught the grimace in his father’s face but then he was being herded down the hill and ushered into the safety of the Vannheim tents. The pain in Raef’s calf was sharp. The blood had soaked into his boot and he could not walk without a limp. If his father noticed, he said nothing, and they marched to Einarr’s tent in silence.

  When they were alone, Einarr turned his back to Raef, busying himself with a cup of ale, but it seemed to Raef that he sagged, that the proud shoulders slumped, that a great sigh escaped from his lips. When Einarr faced Raef once more, his eyes were grim.

  “I will ask you this only once and I expect the truth. Did you seek this fight?”

  “No, father.” When Einarr did not respond, Raef ventured to explain. “I rode into the hills. This place, it seemed to close in about me, so I left. On my return, they found me. Perhaps they followed me from the moment I left the tents. I fought to defend myself. Nothing more.” It would do no good to mention the taunts he had flung at Erlaug. And he would say nothing of Vakre.

  Einarr nodded, though Raef could see little acceptance for what he had done in his father’s face. “Hymar will demand punishment and many will agree with him. But I can demand it as well, for when two men cross blades in anger, there is fault on both sides. I will see to it that you are punished equally or not at all. Hymar will not wish to see his son suffer further humiliation.” Einarr set aside the ale he had poured and not touched. “Go. See to your wound.”

  Raef pushed aside the tent flap. “I am sorry, father.”

  “If you spoke the truth, then you have nothing to be sorry for.”

  And yet Raef felt Einarr’s disappointment as sharply as he felt the slice in his leg. After the wound was cleaned and stitched, and he had dulled the pain with an ample dose of ale, Raef retreated to his own tent. Dawn was not far away and Raef’s mind and body were tired. The furs were soft and the ale had been strong, but sleep did not come easily in those last hours of starlight. When it did come, it brought dark dreams that Raef could not remember, save for a sensation of loneliness.

  Six

  Word spread quickly in the early morning hours of the altercation between Raef and the son of Hymar that had left Erlaug listless and wracked with pain. Those who had not heard it directly from the warriors that had followed Torrulf Palesword into the trees heard it while exchanging talk over sausages and hard bread. But the hunt was still on. Raef heard from Thorald, the Vannheim captain, that the Great-Belly did not intend to let his plans be spoiled by the shedding of some blood, but Thorald also said that both Erlaug and Raef would be expected to appear before the lords after the hunt.

  The hunting party was vast; nearly every lord and warrior, it seemed, wanted to show his skill with arrow or spear. Raef could not help but think that any game would be scared off long before coming within range of a weapon. They soon divided, however, into five separate parties, and while Raef’s group was still far larger than what he was used to at home, he knew this was not really about hunting. His father was in a different party, but Raef intended to keep his eyes and ears open for any sign of how the evening’s gathering would play out, or perhaps for talk of retribution from Hymar, lord of Grudenhavn.

  “Someone may choose to approach you,” Einarr had said as they readied their weapons and mounts. He spoke as though the events of the night had not happened, but neither did he speak with warmth. “If so, commit to nothing but do not turn them away, either. Any conversation you have might be of importance, so remember it all. We will speak later.”

  Raef looked now for faces he knew among his hunting party, but they were scarce. His own face, it seemed, was becoming known, for everywhere he looked he would catch a pair of eyes flickering away, and more than a few warriors had their heads together. If they spoke malicious words about him, Raef was determined to show indifference. Keeping his head high and his eyes forward, Raef waited for the signal to depart to be given and he did not at first notice when Vakre angled his horse alongside Raef’s. Only when Vakre’s horse nudged his own in the shoulder did Raef turn his head.

  Neither spoke, but much passed between them in that moment. Where Vakre’s gaze had been unreadable before, now, for a fleeting moment, Raef caught sight of something raw. There was grief there, and doubt. But then a grin flashed on Vakre’s face, banishing all else, and he challenged Raef to a contest for the first kill.

  Their party thundered off and soon splashed across the river to approach the dense woods west of the Great-Belly’s fortress. Here they dismounted, leaving the horses with servants, and gradually thinned out as they entered the woods until Raef and Vakre were nearly alone. There was enough branch-rustling and twig-snapping around them, though, to indicate that the others were close.

  Vakre, however, Raef noticed, did not snap twigs and rustle branches. He moved with speed, slipping silently between branches, his bow at his side but held with such precision that Raef was sure he could raise, draw, and release all in the blink of an eye. Raef was a good hunter, but with every step they took, he became more certain that it would take luck to win the wager they had agreed upon.

  Vakre paused by a small stream. “Come, this way,” he said, altering their course to follow the lightly tripping water. They continued on, now separated entirely from the other hunters, but with no game in sight as the sun rose higher in the sky. Birds twittered overhead, but not so much as a rabbit crossed their path.

  “Ull’s balls,” Vakre muttered after more than an hour had passed in this manner. “I am beginning to think the Great-Belly has hidden all the game on his lands.” He lowered himself to the ground and leaned against a tree. “Perhaps I will just nap for a while.”

  Raef sat down on a mossy rock. “I wonder if the others have found anything.”

  “Having some trouble?” The light, female voice was teasing. Raef and Vakre jumped to their feet. “Or perhaps you have lost your way.” Raef turned, trying to pinpoint the voice among the trees, and then spotted a figure emerging from behind a pine. She was tall and clothed like a man. She wore no leather armor, but a sword belt was slung across her hips and a bow and quiver were visible over her shoulder. A loose red-gold braid fell over the other shoulder. “Misplaced your tongues?” Her smile was playful and taunting.

  “Your name, lady?” Raef asked, finally finding speech.

  She closed the gap between them. “I am Siv. And you?”

  “Raef Skallagrim, of Vannheim. My friend, Vakre of Finnmark. From where do you hail?”

  Siv shrugged. “I have seen much of the world, Raef Skallagrim, must I call a corner of it home?” She plucked a stray pine needle from her braid. “You are here for the gathering.”

  “Yes. And you?”

  “I am here to hunt, of course. That I hunt on the Great-Belly’s land at the same time that all the lords gather here is likely not a coincidence.” She smiled again. “But my leader is not welcome with the lords.”

  “Your leader?” This from Vakre.

  Siv studied them for a moment. “Come, follow me.” She turned and did not look back to see if they were coming. Raef and Vakre exchanged a look and followed.

  “Do you think she means to hunt us?” Vakre asked, grinning, as they ascended a small hill.

  “I can hear you,” Siv called over her shoulder. She didn’t sound the least bit offended to Raef’s ears.

  “I never thought you could not,” Vakre replied. They traversed a short ridge, the trees thinner here, and then descended again. Here birches dominated
the forest, their white bark and yellowing leaves creating a golden glow. A twang came from behind Raef and he spun on his heel to see Vakre lowering his bow. “Looks like you owe me your finest drinking cup, friend.” He trotted off to retrieve his rabbit. Raef scowled but didn’t protest; he was too curious about where they were headed.

  Raef soon began to hear voices up ahead and it wasn’t long before they reached a clearing. Whatever he had expected, it wasn’t the scene before him. The clearing was full of women, warriors all, and as he and Vakre passed out of the trees, activity gradually came to a stop as all eyes turned to examine the intruders.

  “Maybe we died and the Valkyries have come to collect us.” Vakre, grinning, murmured so only Raef could hear.

  “You bring strangers amongst us?”

  The voice sent a shiver down Raef’s spine. The owner of it stood ten paces from him, arms crossed, defiance in her eyes. For all Raef knew, she might have been a hair’s breadth from his nose; he could see nothing but her face and the dark hair that framed it.

  Siv snorted in laughter next to him, shaking the spell. “I was bored. They were bored. Game was scarce.”

  The dark-haired woman contemplated Raef and Vakre for a moment and then beckoned them forward. “I would have news of your gathering. How many lords stand?”

  “I will not answer until you tell me your name and purpose here,” Raef said.

  The woman’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

  Vakre stirred beside Raef for the first time. “If I can name you,” he said, taking a step forward, “then you must tell us your purpose here.” The woman made no move of agreement, but Vakre continued, heedless. “Your swords are good steel, forged by masters, and yet your cloth is poor and supplies poorer. An unobservant eye would glance, name you a shieldmaiden, and he would not be wrong. An eye that cared to notice might go further and judge from the style of your belt that the southern lands are your home. But your speech, though practiced, marks you as something else entirely.” Vakre circled behind the woman. “You are the foreigner from over the mountains. You fought beside Yannolf of Wayhold last winter. You repelled those strange southern ships two summers before that. Your name travels on quick tongues. You are Eira.”