The Blood-Tainted Winter

by T L Greylock

  Jarl’s eyes shifted. “The boar. It was the boar.”

  Raef looked at Siv, who drew a knife from her boot and tested it against her thumb. She advanced toward Jarl.

  “No, stop,” Jarl cried, wriggling on the ground in a futile attempt to put distance between himself and Siv.

  “You could start with his toes,” Raef said. Siv knelt and plucked off Jarl’s boot.

  “Stop! We did it! The Hammerling ordered it.”

  Siv retreated but now Raef lunged forward, grabbed Jarl by the throat and, thrusting him back, bent him over a broken stone. “Say it! You killed my father.”

  “Yes, we killed him,” croaked Jarl. Raef held him there for a moment, fighting down the urge to squeeze harder, then flung him to the earth.

  “Tell me,” he said, “how it happened.”

  “I followed him. The others tracked the boar and killed it. When he was alone, we struck and then hid in the trees. Once the lord Uhtred returned, we emerged and said we had seen the boar attack your father and by chance had been able to bring the beast down in retaliation.”

  “Was it your spear, Jarl Thrainson, that killed him?”

  Jarl looked warily at Siv but did not answer.

  “It matters not,” Raef said. “You are still damned in the eyes of the gods.”

  “As will you be if you kill me now,” Jarl said, defiance returning to his eyes.

  “I have heard enough.” Raef looked at Vakre. “Get him back on the horse.”

  Siv walked beside Raef’s horse as they trekked back along the ridge. “How did you know he would respond to your threat?”

  “That you would flay him?” Raef smiled a little. “You played your part well. A threat directly from me would be expected and therefore meaningless. He knows what it means to fight with a man and exchange insults with a man. But a woman? Men can learn respect for shieldmaidens, but most harbor fear as well for this strange breed of being that they cannot understand. I took a chance that Jarl would fear the unknown.”

  Siv grinned. “Am I a strange, terrifying being to you?”

  “No,” he said softly, not even sure she could hear him, “I have seen you smile.”

  The Great-Belly’s fortress rumbled from within as they approached, and when the doors to the hall were opened, songs, shouts, and laughter tumbled forth. At first the latecomers went unnoticed but gradually the noise quieted as more and more men saw that Raef waited in the doorway and did not enter. Behind him and out of sight stood Vakre and Siv with Jarl, no longer bound, held tight between them.

  “Young Skallagrim,” the Great-Belly said, his voice carrying across the hall, “come, sit, drink with us.”

  “I will not,” Raef said.

  The Great-Belly rose from his seat. “Reconsider that, lord, before some take your words as insult.”

  “And if my words were meant as insult? Not for you, host,” Raef added. “My quarrel is not with you.”

  “A quarrel is it? Then, by all means, speak your mind.” Thorgrim Great-Belly seemed to be mocking Raef, but he did not care.

  “I come to seek justice for the murder of my father,” Raef said. “And I call on Brandulf Hammerling to answer for it.” The crowd erupted. The Hammerling came to his feet and advanced on Raef. He stopped ten paces away and the noise died down.

  “Tell me that you spoke out of maddening grief, and I will let this insult pass. Your father was killed by a boar.”

  “No, he was killed on your orders by this man,” Raef said, gesturing behind him. Vakre and Siv emerged from the shadows, dragging Jarl.

  The Hammerling’s eyes narrowed upon recognizing his man. “You will release him, now.”

  “I will not.” Raef stood his ground. “He admitted his guilt.”

  Jarl burst out. “He accused me while I lay bound hand and foot. Let him speak so now if he dares.”

  “I do dare!” Raef shouted. “Jarl Thrainson killed my father at your command.” He stared at Brandulf, rage boiling within him.

  “By the gods, I gave no such command!” Brandulf said with equal heat. “You speak falsely.”

  “You call upon the gods, but so can I. They will decide his fate,” Raef said. “And mine.” Raef turned to Vakre. “Release him and give him a sword.”

  Vakre hesitated for only a moment and then did as he was asked.

  “Do not profane my hall with blood,” Thorgrim shouted. “He is under my protection as host.”

  “And I am not? As host, justice is yours to give. But I can see you will not. We will fight and Odin, Father of Battle, will decide.” Raef threw his cloak to the ground and drew his own sword. That action alone seemed to slow his heart beat and the calmness that he had been seeking flooded through him. The Vannheim warriors in the hall stood and prepared to engage if necessary.

  Jarl gripped his borrowed weapon and circled to his right. Raef did the same and Jarl eyed his sword hand warily. It was a look Raef recognized; left-handed fighters were rare.

  Jarl lunged, his sword arcing down on Raef’s head. Raef deftly stepped to the left, deflecting the blade and twisting to deliver a blow of his own with the flat of his blade to Jarl’s neck. Jarl bellowed and spun back in anger, swinging his sword in a wide sweep. Raef leaned back to let it pass by, then, trapping Jarl’s sword arm to prevent a backswing, stepped forward and stomped in Jarl’s knee while bashing Jarl’s face with the cross guard of his sword. As Jarl swung back at him, Raef stepped again to his left and sliced across the back of Jarl’s thigh. Jarl howled in pain and fell to his knees. Raef swung down on Jarl’s upper arm and felt the bone break as the blade went deep. The sword slipped from Jarl’s grasp, though his fingers reached desperately to find it. Raef grasped him by the collar and leaned in close to Jarl’s face. He dropped his own sword to the ground and searched Jarl’s eyes for some sign of remorse. There was none to be found.

  Raef kicked Jarl’s sword well out of reach and drew a knife from his belt. “I do not send you to Valhalla,” he said, his voice low and savage. Raef, locking eyes with Brandulf Hammerling, opened Jarl’s throat with a single, swift motion, then let him fall to the floor. Jarl struggled for a moment, blood pooling under him, but soon lay still. The hall of warriors was silent.

  To kill a man in combat was nothing, but to kill a man in single combat and not allow him to hold his sword, stripping him of any chance to go to the gods, was a rare violation of the unspoken code between warriors. Even the foulest enemy was most often granted that chance.

  “The gods have given you your justice, Raef Skallagrim.” Thorgrim Great-Belly spoke quietly, his voice tinged with both anger and uncertainty. “Go now from my hall before you suffer the same fate.”

  “What of the Hammerling? He must answer for his part in this.” Raef said, the heat of battle still upon him. The Vannheim warriors closed in around him, sensing danger.

  Vakre stepped forward and placed a hand on Raef’s shoulder, urging him to leave before the hall flared to life. “Come,” he said. “Leave him for another day or we will not get out alive.” Raef stared at Brandulf Hammerling for a final moment then turned and left the hall. The Vannheim men followed.

  “What will you do now?” Siv asked as they returned to the Vannheim camp.

  “The Hammerling will answer me. He cannot hide.”

  “But how?”

  “Jarl did not act alone. I will find the others and kill them if I must. The Hammerling will not ignore that.”

  “You intend to meet him in combat, then?” Vakre asked.

  “I see no other choice. If your father was murdered, would you not want the same?”

  “I have never known my father,” Vakre said, “but if I did, yes, I imagine I would feel as you do.”

  “Is it safe to stay here?” Siv asked.

  “No. But I will not leave, not yet. I have enough men that I will not be easily brought down, but I do expect trouble. I will triple the guard on the tents.”

  He relayed these orders to his captains upon reachin
g the tents and then retired into his own. To his surprise, Eira was waiting within. She looked him over as he removed his cloak and weapons.

  “There is blood on you,” she said, touching his cheek. “But not yours.”

  “I have killed one of the men responsible for my father’s death.” Raef dipped a cloth in a wash bowl and began to wipe Jarl’s blood from his hands, neck, and face.

  “Let me.” Eira took the cloth from him. Raef allowed himself to close his eyes and inhale deeply. “You are unsettled.”

  “Jarl will not go to Valhalla. I made sure of that and I believe it was the right thing to do.” He stopped her hand and brought it to his lips. “But I never thought I would do that to any man.” He pulled her close and breathed into her hair. “I wonder what my father would think.”

  Eira ran her hands through Raef’s hair. “Our swords are yours if you have need of them.”

  Raef kissed her and they sank down onto the furs that covered the earthen floor.

  Eight

  Raef awoke before dawn, groggy but aware of a stone in his back. He shifted carefully to remove it without waking Eira, who slept tucked against him, her dark hair spilling over her face and onto his chest. What drew her to him, he could not say, he only knew he wanted her.

  He closed his eyes, but just as he felt sleep return, a faint cry reached him. Once, twice, and the third time he knew what it was.

  “Fire!”

  Shaking Eira awake, he jumped to his feet and ran to the tent flap, pulling on boots as he went. At first, he could not tell where the fire was, other than that it was not among his own tents. Then he saw the smoke rising from deep within the tent city. Others were emerging now and Thorald, the captain, ran to Raef’s side.

  The captain gave Raef a questioning look. Raef nodded. “Help them,” he said. His own quarrel aside, the fire was a danger to all and the wind would help it spread. “But see that ours are not left unguarded.” Thorald nodded and began to organize the men. Raef returned to his tent to tell Eira what was happening, then he, too, went to help.

  Whose tents were aflame, he could not tell, but the damage was already vast. The river was close, though, and there were already many chains of men and women passing buckets and pots to and from the river by the time Raef arrived. He joined the shortest line, only vaguely aware that the men around him were nearly all Brandulf Hammerling’s.

  The chains worked from the outside, preventing the fire from spreading, and gradually beat back the flames to a contained circle. The danger was past and the rest would be allowed to burn itself out under watch. Raef went to the river to splash water on himself and found Thorald there.

  “Whose tents?” he asked.

  “Mostly those of Solheim, lord.”

  “A campfire left alone?”

  Thorald looked uneasy. “It spread too fast for a single fire. It had to have been set, and in more than one place.”

  Raef had suspected as much, but Thorald’s speculation was still unwelcome to his ears. “See that none of our men have been harmed.” Other than singed arm hair, Raef himself was unscathed.

  “Raef,” said a voice behind him. Raef turned and was relieved to see Vakre, sweaty and grimy, but no worse. “The lords are meeting, now, in the Great-Belly’s hall. I thought you should know.” Raef nodded his thanks and set off for the hall, bare-chested and unarmed. He had not been asked to come, yet as a lord it was his right, and it was dishonorable of them to exclude him.

  The hall was deeply shadowed; only a few torches had been lit and most of the lord’s faces were in darkness.

  “It was no accident,” one was saying as Raef entered. The speaker was Fengar of Solheim; a raw, bleeding burn covered his forearm. “Blood is on someone’s hands this night.”

  Heads turned and voices began to murmur as Raef’s appearance was noticed. Brandulf Hammerling took a step forward, but cautionary hands restrained him.

  “Whose blood do you speak of?” Raef asked.

  “Gudrik of Karahull and Eymar of Freynor are dead. Sigun of Ingis is badly burned. These men were in my tent when the flames burst upon us. I escaped and returned to pull Sigun to safety, but it was too late for the others,” Fengar said.

  “Some might say you, Skallagrim, would have cause to set this fire.” The speaker was a lord Raef did not know by name. His voice was suggestive rather than accusing.

  “You all know my sparks would have been aimed elsewhere.” Raef was pleased to hear assenting voices and even see a few wry smiles. “The question is not who I want dead, but who wants Fengar dead?”

  “We should not rule out the will of Odin,” Thorgrim Great-Belly said.

  “If the Father of Hosts wants my life, he may take it in battle,” Fengar said heatedly.

  “Odin is not the only god in Asgard.” Hauk of Ruderk spoke up quietly. “Loki is vengeful and fond of fire.”

  “Then it is by Odin’s will that you survive, Fengar,” Stefnir of Gornhald said solemnly. “I have asked the gods for wisdom that I may choose well at this gathering. I have made my choice. Fengar of Solheim, you are my king.” Stefnir knelt before his chosen one as the other lords began to murmur to each other.

  “And mine,” Sigholf of Freywyn said above the din. He, too, knelt.

  “The gods have spoken, Fengar. I will not ignore them.” The oldest lord, Halgeir of Kelgard, crippled with age, struggled to bend the knee but refused aid, his back straight with pride.

  Raef could not believe his eyes as more lords followed suit. This was not what he had thought to witness. Some men, like him, stayed back, apprehension writ on their faces. Fengar himself looked surprised but pleased.

  Striding forward among those who knelt, a dissenter spoke up. “This is madness! This is not how we choose a king.”

  “The few must bow to the many,” Stefnir of Gornhald said, gesturing to the kneelers.

  “I do not see many. I see a few.” Raef recognized the speaker as Torrulf Palesword. “I will not stand for this. He is not my king.” Torrulf turned and strode out of the hall. Others began to do the same and Raef found himself leaving the hall shoulder to shoulder with Brandulf Hammerling.

  Vakre was waiting outside. “What has happened?”

  “Fengar has been made king by those who see it as Odin’s will. You see here,” Raef waved a hand at the other men in the moonlight, “those who do not embrace him.

  Vakre searched for words. “All this because of a fire? What of the gathering? What of the voice of the warriors?”

  “It will not be heard.” The Hammerling broke in. “Fengar was a strong candidate already. Most men will welcome him for he is like them. The choice will mean a feast for those who remain. The men will drink and they will not care.” He looked squarely at Raef. “I will put aside my grievance and pride if you will do the same.”

  “No. I have not finished with you, and this changes nothing.”

  The Hammerling nodded as though he had expected as much. “Then I will meet you one day in battle.” He left.

  Though Raef would have been glad to fight him in that moment, he knew other matters were more urgent. It would have to wait.

  “Your uncle is in there,” Raef said to Vakre. “Stefnir of Gornhald was the first to name Fengar and your uncle did not hesitate to follow. What will you do?”

  “My uncle and I have never seen eye to eye. I will not remain here under a falsely chosen king. And you?”

  “Five hundred years ago, Vannheim was the last to accept a king. I will honor my ancestors. I will not kneel to a man who rises from the ashes of deceit.”

  They returned to the Vannheim tents and Raef immediately gave orders that every man, horse, and wagon be readied for travel. Eira said she would return to the forest to gather her fighters and meet him on the road west. Vakre took a moment to collect his belongings and then rejoined Raef. An unexpected visitor arrived as Raef prepared his own horse and gear.

  “Skallagrim.” Torrulf Palesword, also dressed for travel, was younger
than Raef’s father had been, but Raef had often heard Einarr speak well of the Palesword and his knowledge of warfare. “My question to you is simple. Will you raise your banners for me?”

  Raef wondered if his father would have wanted Torrulf as king. “I have business elsewhere first. But I will think on what you ask.” Raef mounted his horse.

  If Torrulf was disappointed, he did not show it. He nodded and said, “I will ask Thor to protect you.”

  It was an unexpected gesture of goodwill. “And I you.” Raef wheeled his horse and began shouting for the men to fall into formation, then he and Thorald led them west, leaving Balmoran and the tent city to revel with their new king.

  “You spoke of business, lord,” Thorald said as they splashed across the river. “You mean not to return home?”

  “You will,” Raef said. “Most of the men will go with you.”

  “My place is with you, lord.” In the darkness, Raef could not see Thorald’s face, but he could hear his captain’s frown.

  “I need you home, Thorald. The Far-Traveled was right. War is coming and we must prepare for it. I need our defenses solidified. I need farmers warned. I need our warriors at home primed for battle.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “Better that you not have that information. Then no one can ask it of you.” Silence greeted this. “My father would not have needed to tell you twice.” Raef managed to say this gently, but he clenched his reins in frustration.

  “Nor do you, lord. It will be done.” Thorald turned his horse to double back along their column of riders.

  The darkness and uneven ground kept them from traveling as quickly as Raef would have liked. It was not Fengar that worried him. The new high king would be unable to threaten serious battle without due preparation and Raef doubted that he would be Fengar’s first target. That honor would go to the Palesword, Raef was certain, for, of all the lords that had left the Great-Belly’s hall, only Torrulf had spoken out against the new king. Others, less certain, might simply go home and then be brought into the fold with gifts veiled in threats. But Torrulf would fight.

  “Riders approaching,” Vakre, riding beside Raef, said. There was enough moonlight to make out a line of horses angling toward them across the open plain, but their direction indicated they had not come from the fortress. Nonetheless, Raef’s captains called for a halt and the warriors prepared to fight if need be.