by T L Greylock
Of Fengar and the hasty, unwanted alliance, there was no talk, though, later, when more detailed plans were made, the Hammerling spoke of having Fengar serve as bait, to draw the Palesword to the lake, or as hammer, to push the Palesword onto the ice, depending on the nature of the Palesword’s approach. It was likely either would be necessary, and diverting men from the Hammerling’s host to fill this role would be risky. Brandulf did not say it aloud, but there was no denying Fengar’s presence would increase their chances of success.
Vakre and the others returned just as the last rays of sun slipped below the earth. The horses were well-laden with the supplies and exhausted from their journey. Not wanting to wait until daylight incase he had overestimated the time it would take the Palesword to arrive, Raef rode with Siv, Vakre, and Eira out onto the ice. There, by torchlight, Raef cut a hole in the ice with his axe and they carefully poured every drop of oil and pitch into the dark waters. How much of the lake they would cover, Raef could not be sure. He could only hope it was enough for there was no time to gather more.
“Whoever lights the fire should hide there,” Vakre said, pointing to a cluster of pine trees that stood on the northern shore, “as the Palesword passes by. Hidden up among the branches.” He looked at Raef. “Let me be the torch.”
Raef held Vakre’s gaze. “I can think of no better.” With those words, Raef hoped to apologize for the mistrust and anger he had directed at Vakre.
Vakre nodded. “Best I stay here, then. It would not do to be seen and we do not know how much time we have.”
Raef held out his hand. “I will not say farewell. For we will meet again. Either in the corpse hall or here crowned in victory.” Vakre clasped his forearm and then, after doing the same with both Eira and Siv, handed his horse to Raef, turned and walked to the northern shore. Raef watched until Vakre disappeared under the low pine branches before returning to the hills.
By night, a vigil was kept in anticipation of Fengar’s arrival but by dawn the lord of Solheim had still not appeared. The Hammerling grumbled and looked ready to slit the nearest throat. Hauk of Ruderk insisted there was still time but received dark glances for his optimism.
The morning hours passed slowly for Raef. He checked his weapons but they needed nothing. He organized the Vannheim warriors, but the captains had done much of it for him. In the end, Raef paid a visit to his horse. He stroked the grey’s nose and wondered if Torrulf Palesword had yet had cause to regret calling out Freyja’s army, if his father would have stood where he stood now, and if one man would rise up as king that day.
The horse snorted and leaned against Raef. He rubbed its ears and turned to go but movement in a lone, twisted tree caught his eye. Raef moved between the other horses tethered there and came to stand beneath the gnarled branches, his gaze fixed on the raven perched above. There was only one, but Raef was certain he had seen the bird before. The black eyes stared down at him, and then the raven cocked its head to one side and croaked twice. Raef grinned and the bird took off, pumping its wings hard as it headed over the lake.
The sun was nearly at its peak when word came from the scouts the Hammerling had posted at the far end of the lake and beyond into the forest. One man rode back with all haste and the words that formed on his lips did not need to be said. The Palesword was coming.
Warriors hurried down the steep slopes and fell into position and within moments, the Hammerling’s battle line was formed on the eastern edge of the lake. Raef took his place on the far right. To his left were men of Norfaem. To his right, nothing. When the fighting commenced, Vannheim would need to hold the line. Siv and Eira stood just behind Raef.
There, among the warriors of Vannheim, Raef’s blood stirred and he felt the anticipation of battle surge through every muscle and sinew in his body. There, the sun on their faces and the snow swirling around their feet, at last Raef would lead his warriors to war.
The view across the lake was shrouded with blowing snow and at first Raef heard, rather than saw, the enemy. He saw men around him tighten their grips on shields and swords. But then the wind died and the snow parted, revealing the front line of the Palesword’s army. Raef wondered if Vakre had lit the oil yet, or if the Palesword’s warriors still marched past the hole in the ice, making it unavailable to him.
The remaining scouts, who, in Fengar’s absence, had stayed to draw the Palesword onto the ice, now raced back to the safety of the line, abandoning their horses and taking their places among their shield-brothers. At a signal from the middle, the Hammerling’s host moved forward until those in the first line of the shield wall had taken a single step onto the ice. Raef looked down, wishing he knew if the oil had spread to this shore, but the ice and snow at his feet gave no answers. He felt Siv and Eira press in close from the second row, saw the tips of the second row’s spears emerge, ready to strike from behind.
When the Palesword’s army came within a spear’s throw, they halted, and for a long moment, the two forces stood in silence, the only noise the resurgent wind whipping the banners. A single man stepped forward from the opposing line, soon followed by four others. Raef could recognize the Palesword at the front. It was unexpected, but upon seeing the Hammerling leave his position in the middle to meet Torrulf, Raef did the same, his thoughts on the danger that lurked below the ice.
“Come to surrender and beg for your life?” The Hammerling stood before the Palesword, his arms crossed over his chest, his voice full of scorn.
“You know what marches at my back, Brandulf. I have no need for such weakness.” The Palesword stood tall and straight, his eyes reflecting the bright blue of the sky. He looked at Raef for a moment, then back to the Hammerling. “If you wish to keep your lives, you need only call me king and I will keep the wolves at bay.”
“Will you?” Raef said. “Do those wolves answer to you?” Raef thought he saw a hint of unease in the Palesword’s eyes. He pressed on. “Are you proud of the work you have done? Of the unnatural terror you have unleashed on the world?”
“I have done what is necessary, but you would not understand, Skallagrim. Your mind is too small, and now you will die a small death, unworthy of remembrance.”
“Once I wondered if I might call you king. I thought you deserving of the challenge. But no longer, Torrulf. You have twisted yourself beyond recognition. Never will I call you king. And if I die today, all the world will sing a song of my death.”
“You have your answer,” the Hammerling said.
The Palesword scowled. “So be it. The rivers will run red with your blood and the crows will feast on your flesh and the sun will bleach your bones.”
“All men die, Torrulf. Even those monsters you brought here. Take care that the bones are not yours.” The Hammerling turned his back on the Palesword and walked away. Raef lingered to be sure the Palesword or those with him would not strike out, then he, too, returned to the line, looking over his shoulder once to search in vain for Gudrik’s face among the enemy. The Hammerling and Raef parted ways with only a nod exchanged between them and Raef slipped back into his position between Finnolf Horsebreaker and Erling.
“We are men of Vannheim,” Raef shouted. “The strength of mighty Ymir is with us. Death to all!”
The charge came three heartbeats later. Raef watched and readied himself, the oil and Vakre forgotten, for this was battle and nothing else. It was shield-strength and blade-work. It was bloodletting and life-taking. Raef touched the hammer at his neck. The space in front of them dwindled to nothing. The enemy was ten steps away, then nine, eight, seven. Raef braced, his shield up, and shouted for his men to do the same. A moment later, the spears from the second row burst through and with a great shudder, the armies clashed together.
The push of the Palesword’s army was like none Raef had ever felt. He was forced back, his boots slipping on the ice, the others around him no better off. But after the initial thrust, Raef and the men around him, propelled by those in the rear, dug in and answered with their own, earning
back that slight bit of ground they had lost.
The first jab of Raef’s short sword was rewarded with hot blood and as the man fell to the ice, Raef knew he was not of Freyja’s army. Raef slashed his throat to finish him and then held his ground as a spear shivered against his shield, deflecting off and sliding inches from his shoulder. With a quick hack, Raef removed the point of the spear. Eira’s hand snaked through from behind him and, grasping the splintered wood, she yanked hard, pulling the warrior on the other end of the spear forward onto Raef’s waiting blade.
On and on the warriors pushed but with each fallen opponent, Raef pressed forward, staking a claim to more ice. But with every drop of blood he spilled and every inch he gained, Raef knew that somewhere on the Hammerling’s line Freyja’s warriors were wreaking havoc. Ducking to avoid another spear, Raef leaned forward and smacked his shield up into his opponent’s face. Off-balance, the man swung wildly but Raef deflected with ease and threw his short sword as the man stumbled back. It struck home in the man’s chest and he dropped to the ground, the battle-roar stuck in his throat.
Switching to his axe as the empty hole in the line was filled, Raef reached over his own shield and hooked the axe on the new warrior’s shield. With a sharp pull, he ripped the shield from its owner’s grasp and finished him with a chop to the neck.
The next pair of eyes that Raef found across from him was set in a face Raef knew. A great, black beard hung from a square chin and a twice-broken nose hooked out from between maddened eyes. Once, Raef would have been glad to see Yannolf, lord of Wayhold, the most feared sea-raider in the southern lands. An honest if less than law-abiding lord, if there was such a thing, Raef remembered his father saying. But there on the ice, their eyes met and Raef saw the blood lust in Yannolf’s face.
“Skallagrim,” Yannolf roared. He charged and though Raef prepared for the impact of the lord’s shield, still it knocked him to the ground. Raef scrambled to find his feet on the ice, but Yannolf’s sword arced down and it was all Raef could do to get his shield up in time to meet it. The blow reverberated through Raef’s arms, and he bared his teeth against the numbness that followed. Still on his back, Raef swept his legs into Yannolf, upending the black-bearded man. Spinning on the ice, Raef dropped his shield, pulled a knife and stabbed it into Yannolf’s calf, the closest thing to him. Raef yanked the blade out and scrabbled to his knees but Yannolf was just as quick and he met Raef’s axe with his sword.
The blade bit into the axe’s handle, nearly severing it in two, and the loss of resistance nearly cost Raef his life, for Yannolf, using the stuck sword to pull Raef forward, grabbed a knife and lashed out with it. Raef managed to lean back just enough but still the blade sliced the flesh of Raef’s shoulder. Raef did not feel the pain but at last found his feet. Yannolf, breathing heavily, did the same, but the larger man was tired and Raef had not yet drawn his sword.
Raef slid the sword from its scabbard and it seemed to him to sing in the cold air, free at last. “Mine is the serpent-breath,” Raef said. He advanced on Yannolf and though the bigger man deflected and ducked Raef’s first two moves, he was too slow for the third and Raef’s sword split open his arm. Yannolf staggered. Raef stepped forward and placed his hand on the lord’s shoulder, pulling him close. “I will drink with you in Valhalla,” Raef said, for he had no quarrel with the lord of Wayhold. He plunged his sword into Yannolf’s belly and watched death take him.
Letting the lord of Wayhold’s corpse fall to the ground, Raef had a moment to assess his surroundings. The shield walls of Vannheim and Wayhold had broken open and each man fought for himself. The space around Raef was littered with bodies and he could see that the Vannheim warriors were gaining the upper hand. How the rest of the Hammerling’s line fared, Raef could not say. His world was restricted to the next opponent, a shieldmaiden who flung herself at him. Her haste made her incautious and Raef took little time in sending her to Odin. Three more men soon fell to Raef’s sword and he rallied those closest to him.
“Push left,” he shouted. For the enemy in front of them had thinned and they could now fall on those farther down the line and beset them from two sides. The Vannheim warriors did as he ordered, battling through and pivoting until they could descend on the rear of the next segment in the Palesword’s line.
A bright crimson banner flew there and Raef knew it to belong to Brynjar of Skolldain. Setting his sights on the warriors closest to the banner, where a measure of safety might be had and where he knew the cowardly Brynjar would remain, Raef fought on, picking his way through the lines, his sword in his left hand, the broken axe in his right. The wound on his shoulder bled, but Raef did not care. Finnolf, Eira, and Siv trailed just after him, intent on staying close, but Raef saw only what lay ahead. All that mattered was the next step, the next kill.
Spattered in the blood of other men, Raef at last saw Brynjar. The lord held his famous spear but it was unsullied and four warriors stayed close, ready to fend off any attacker who came near. “Brynjar!” Raef’s shout drew their gaze but Raef only had eyes for Brynjar. “Shall I dance on your balls again? I spared your life once. Face me now, coward.”
Raef expected resistance, expected the four warriors to stand for their lord, but their eyes told a different story. They had followed his banner but not out of admiration for Brynjar. The four men glanced among each other and then stepped aside to let Raef pass. The lord of Skolldain’s face twisted in fear and he begged them to stay but his pleas fell on deaf ears. Raef, his sword held low, advanced.
“Such a weapon must spill blood. Do so, or I will,” Raef said.
Brynjar clutched the weapon with both hands, his knuckles white, and assumed a defensive stance. Raef faked a lunge and swing. Brynjar took the bait and stabbed forward with the spear. Moving easily, Raef spun around and slapped at Brynjar with the flat of his blade, knocking him off balance. Brynjar answered with a second jab and again Raef eluded him, dancing to his left. A quick flick of his wrists, and Raef’s sword bit into Brynjar’s upper arm. The lord clutched at the wound, blood seeping between his fingers.
“To match the one I gave you before,” Raef said. But Raef was tired of the game. “I will not toy with you any longer. Know that your spear is mine and I will put it to better use than you or your ancestors ever did.” Though Brynjar tried to defend himself, the fight was short and, when he lay dead upon the ice, Raef did not even have to pry the spear from Brynjar’s fingers. Raef tucked the broken axe back into his belt and hefted the spear with his right hand. It seemed to hum there, primed for battle, ready to do the work it was made for.
With the left of the Palesword’s line in chaos, Raef, alone out on the ice, fixated on the right, where the fighting was thick. Raef was sure he would find the warriors of Freyja there. Raef drew the attention of as many Vannheim men as he could and then pounded across the ice to attack from the rear.
As he ran, Raef spared a moment to glance across the lake, hoping for a glimpse of something, anything that would tell him if the fire had been lit. He saw nothing but ice and snow.
A swing of his sword and the head fell clean off the shoulders of the first, unsuspecting warrior Raef reached from behind. Raef continued forward and engaged a second, who had seen him coming. But a quick thrust with the spear broke the other man’s stride just enough for Raef to get his sword around and into the neck. The warrior’s own momentum did the rest for him and Raef was on to the next.
They were just two strides apart when the ice broke open between them and flames burst forth to the sky. Raef tried to stop but his weight carried him forward and he slid toward the flaming breach. Throwing himself to the right, Raef just missed the fire but felt the heat. The other warrior had not reacted in time and Raef, sprawled in the snow, saw him flail and sink below the surface, the skin of his face blistered beyond recognition.
Scrambling to his feet, Raef saw the lake begin to crumble around him as the ice melted and broke apart. Everywhere men were falling into the flames. Some c
rawled out again but the fire was upon them and would not let go. Raef was already running for the shore, his feet slipping but desperation kept him balanced as the ice vanished behind him. Sensing he had but a moment before the lake claimed him, Raef launched himself toward the shore.
He hit solid ground and rolled away out of reach of the flames. Wincing from the landing, Raef found his feet and collected his spear, which had flown from his grasp on impact. As he rose from the snow, his eyes took in the scene that spread out before him.
Raef had seen it in his mind’s eye, but the reality was far beyond what he had imagined. Where moments before Raef’s world had been nothing but ice and snow, now it was flames that licked and spit and heat that made Raef look away. Death was all around. Men caught in the fiery lake screamed and thrashed. Others who had made it to land were no better off and Raef saw many flaming bodies stumble and fall. And yet still the battle raged, though the flames had taken their toll and Raef guessed the number of warriors had been cut in half. Whether friend or foe had taken more losses, he did not know. He scanned the shore but Siv and Eira were not to be seen.
Through it all, Raef saw the Hammerling, his face wild with the battle-joy, his sword a flashing, singing instrument of death. And there, just beyond, the Palesword, the legendary blade bright in the sun, dressed in the life-blood of other men. At the Palesword’s side, the broad, tall form of Ragnarr Silenthand was unmistakable and he dealt death to all who approached. There the fighting was fiercest, a brawl without order, and Raef fought his way to the Hammerling’s side.
“Skallagrim,” the Hammerling shouted, catching sight of Raef. “Victory is at hand.” Brandulf bled from a blow to the head, but it was clear his spirit soared beyond any common wound. “Let us take him together.” Raef met the Hammerling’s eyes and nodded.
Before Raef could follow in the wake of Brandulf’s cloak, he was slammed to the ground by an unknown attacker from behind. Face in the blood-spattered snow, Raef worked to catch the breath that had flown from him. The weight of a man settled on his back and he felt a knife pressed against his spine.