by T L Greylock
Two horses watched Raef from the safety of the trees and they seemed glad to see a living man when he approached them. Raef patted their noses and told them they were brave for not having fled from the fire. Then he mounted one and, the other in tow, went in search of Vakre.
He did not have to go far. The tracks took him up a gradual slope alongside a narrow fall of water that would spill into the fjord below. In spring it would be a rush of snow melt; now it was only a trickle and the rocks were crusted with ice. He found Vakre face down in the snow, as still as the ice, and Raef feared death had claimed him. Raef dismounted and knelt in search of a pulse, but he jerked his fingers back in surprise, for Vakre’s flesh was hot. Not the heat of a man crippled by fever and wound-rot, but the heat of a rock long warmed by the sun. Raef rolled Vakre over and watched as his chest rose and fell in shallow but steady breaths. His face, though drawn with exhaustion, was free of pain. Raef expelled his relief in a long, shaky breath and felt his own fatigue weigh heavy on his shoulders. And yet he could not rest, not yet.
Vakre stirred only a little as Raef lifted him and carried him back down to the fjord. There he collected the swords of the dead men and one spear, for they were good steel, and draped Vakre over the back of one of the horses. The bow that had felled the grey mare was charred and splintered by Vakre’s fire. It would break at any attempt to draw an arrow, so Raef left it with the corpses. Searching in the saddle packs, Raef found cheese and dried meat, and he ate a portion quickly, hardly chewing. Then, after washing it down with a splash of fjord water, Raef turned the horses away from the shore, leaving the bodies to the creeping tide.
The hidden fortress of Vannheim was as Raef remembered it, though he had last visited as a boy of twelve carrying his first battle-ready sword and in awe of the great bowl cut out of the side of the mountain. It was not a fortress of walls and stone, but a natural refuge invisible to prying eyes in the narrow valley below. The eagle’s nest, his father had called it. The way up was steep and Raef was forced to carry Vakre rather than risk him falling from his precarious position on the horse, and the trees were thick, blocking the way with tangled branches and heavy underbrush weighed down by snow. But Raef climbed, given strength by the knowledge that he was close, so close. To his left, the end of the fjord sparkled in the moonlight and the sheer cliffs that flanked it on both sides reared up out of the water like guardians to watch over the hidden place. Below him, the river rushed through the valley, a constant murmur in conversation with the owls and the wolves and the other creatures that called this wild, bleak place home. This was not a place for men, or farms, or warm fires in stone hearths, but Raef, as he summited the slope and came over the rise into the bowl, felt a measure of peace fill him for the first time since he had lost everything he held dear, everything that warmed his blood.
The vertical walls of rock lining the bowl were set far back in the shadows and were punctured by a few caves, but Raef had not come so far to crawl into a hole and shiver in the dark. Leaving Vakre with the horses, Raef went back into the trees in search of dry kindling and branches that might burn despite the snow cover. The prevailing winds and the southern winter sun kept the eagle’s nest largely free of snow, a fact Raef was glad of as he worked his flint with frozen fingers and coaxed a spark to life. He watched the newborn flames lick a handful of crispy leaves and dead pine needles, then spring up, eager for more fuel.
The warmth of the fire seemed to revive Vakre, and the son of Loki shifted, his eyelids fluttering, but it was some time before he opened his eyes. When he did, he stared at the cheerful fire for a long moment, and it was only when Raef pulled a whetstone from his belt and began to stroke it along his sword that Vakre stirred and looked around, first to the stars and then to Raef.
“I thought it a dream,” Vakre said, his voice weak.
“It was no dream.” Little else needed to be said. Raef put the whetstone aside.
“Where are we?” Vakre pushed away the fur Raef had taken from the pack belonging to the dead men and prodded at the makeshift bandage Raef had fashioned over the left side of his abdomen, where the knife had gone deep. Raef had changed the binding and cleaned it twice during the flight from the Vestrhall, but he knew it was not enough. It needed to be stitched. And yet Vakre’s probing fingers did not seem to cause pain.
“A refuge in a storm. Somewhere Isolf will not know to look.” Raef lifted his head from where it rested on his arms, his knees drawn up close to his chest, and looked over his shoulder at the walls of rock that shielded them from east, north, and west. “We are above the end of the small, southern arm of the fjord that runs to the Vestrhall and the sea. The secret of this place is known to only a few.”
“And the fire? Will not the smoke be seen?”
Raef shook his head. “Only the wolves walk these hills. And maybe the gods.”
Vakre frowned as though remembering something and glanced around. “Siv.” He looked back to Raef, a question in his eyes.
“She was inside the walls.” Raef found he did not want to look at Vakre. He focused on the bright fire. “Many lives were stolen by Isolf’s treachery.”
“She could yet be alive.”
Raef closed his eyes but Vakre’s words burned into his gut as the red flames did into his eyelids. “It was too much. Isolf’s warriors, the men from Silfravall, the warriors lured by Tulkis Greyshield’s words, and the advantage of surprise. Any resistance would have been put to death.”
“Do not let go of hope, Raef,” Vakre said.
Good words, strong words. And yet hope seemed a distant thing to Raef, a tiny boat far at sea, at the mercy of the volatile waves and storms. If Raef tried to swim the distance, he would be swept under and drowned.
In Raef’s silence, Vakre turned back to his wound and peeled away the soiled cloth.
“It cannot be,” he murmured.
Raef looked and was stunned by what he saw. The wound that had been so red and angry and filled with yellow puss was pink and clean and closed.
“Just yesterday, I thought the rot would kill you,” Raef said. “You burned those men.” He gestured at the thin cloak that had belonged to Loki. “Do you remember? By the fjord.”
Vakre nodded. “Yes, though the effort nearly sent me to the gods. My father’s gift must have cleansed and sealed the wound, but I am weak. I will be a burden to you. Find a farm, someone who will take me in.”
Raef shook his head and felt his hands begin to tremble. “No.”
“You have work yet to do,” Vakre said, his voice stronger and insistent. “You are the lord of Vannheim, no matter what deceitful, cruel things Isolf has done.”
“I will not leave you and you will not die.” Raef clenched his hands into fists, his voice sharp with anger that was not meant for Vakre.
Vakre’s eyes narrowed. “What happened in the trees, Raef, after we fled from the walls? What eats at you?”
Raef stared into the fire. “I chose your life.”
“Over?”
Raef could see it in the flames. “You bled. Even in the dark, I could see the snow turn red with your blood. My hands were all that kept you alive.” Raef looked at Vakre at last. “I let him go.”
“Hauk.” Understanding came to Vakre’s face. “He was there, watching. You could have gone after him.”
“I could have sent him to Valhalla,” Raef said, a snarl bursting out of his throat. “I could have earned justice for my father at last.”
Vakre was quiet for a moment. “Do you regret your choice?”
“No.” It was the truth, but it did not make Hauk of Ruderk’s escape any easier to accept. “You are my brother and I hold true to that. But now you see why you cannot die.”
“I will do my best.” Vakre lay down and pulled the fur across his chest once more. “Thank you for my life.” Raef nodded and settled down opposite Vakre. The warmth of the fire began to dull his senses, the fatigue that had slowly gathered strength now overwhelmed. Raef let his eyes close and i
t was only moments before he drifted off. He dreamed of Siv.
THREE
The fog was thick, so thick that even Raef, perched high in his eagle’s nest above the valley and the fjord, could see nothing beyond Vakre sleeping next to the cold ashes of the fire. Above him, the clouds were thinning and the day promised to be bright, but it would be some time before the sun burned through. Raef worked a piece of dried meat around his mouth to soften it, then chewed and swallowed. The cheese was nearly gone, but there was plenty of meat, so he left it all out where Vakre might see, for the son of Loki had not eaten the night before, then Raef collected the empty water skins and the spear he had taken from the dead men and descended down into the fog-filled valley.
The fog had gentled the winter morning and softened the air, and it hung in thick shrouds around Raef as he emerged from the trees at the bank of the swift, rock-strewn river. Raef stepped from stone to stone until he was in the middle of the rushing water, then dipped the water skins into the tumult and filled them until they bulged. Then, the skins reattached to his belt, Raef worked his way upriver, his feet sure on the slippery stones, until he reached a rock large enough to sit on. There he waited, spear at the ready, eyes searching for nimble silver fish in the pale blue, glacier-fed water.
He had never mastered spearfishing, preferring instead to work with hooks and line, and his first four throws were poor. The fifth found its mark, though, and Raef clambered over the rocks to retrieve the good-sized trout pierced on the spear’s point. It wriggled still, caught only by its tail, and Raef slapped it against a stone to kill it, then returned to his boulder. Patience and persistence rewarded Raef with four more fish, all speckled brown trout, and he retraced his steps up to the bowl, emerging above the fog to find a brilliant blue sky, unblemished by clouds, spreading over the mountain peaks.
Raef deposited his catch on the ground and began to revive the fire, then used his slender, small knife to gut and clean the trout. Vakre, curled away from the fire, did not stir, but Raef, as he pulled the guts from inside the largest of his fish, felt eyes on him. Slowly, Raef got to his feet and turned, knife and hands slick with fish.
The raven was perched above him, clinging with sharp talons to a spire of rock on the side of the bowl. It was alone, its brother in some far corner of the world, no doubt. The black eyes bore into him, wreaking havoc in Raef’s mind as surely as his knife had torn up the trout’s small organs. Long had it been since he had seen a raven, and he knew not whether to be glad of it.
“I survive, still, Allfather,” Raef said, his voice small against the great bowl around him and the fathomless sky above. “My fate has not yet caught up with me.” The raven made a quiet sound deep in its throat. “Do you laugh at me? You see me now, bereft of everything, I who stood before you and refused a place in a distant, star-strewn hall, all for the hope of a home I have now lost. But I endure, Allfather, with or without your eye upon me, no matter the runes that have been carved next to my name in Yggdrasil’s bark.” The raven cocked its head and flapped its wings once. “You are listening? Then hear me now. I will reclaim Vannheim and I will bring the blood eagle to the oath-breaker, Isolf. This I will do, even when the stars have gone black, even when Jörmungand rises from the sea, and even while Surt’s fires blaze across the nine realms. Even in your darkest hour, when the jaws of Fenrir slather before your face, I will split open my cousin’s back and draw forth his ribs and then his lungs and loose his screams to the world.”
For a moment, Raef’s words hung in the air and the raven was still, then its massive wings spread wide and it took to the sky, riding the low clouds that yet covered the valley before disappearing to the east. Raef turned back to the fire and saw that Vakre was watching him now, and though his face was pale and thin and the shadows in his eyes were deep and dark, there was something of his old self there, too, and he grinned as Raef sat down to finish cleaning the last fish.
“Good words. The gods love a man who challenges fate,” Vakre said. He helped Raef spit the fish on sticks and held two over the flames.
“Your father most of all?”
Vakre looked thoughtful. “No more than Odin, I think. Does not the Allfather defy fate with each rising sun? Loki may be cunning and full of hate, and he seeks to bring doom to the gods, but that fate will come, with or without Loki. It is Odin who works against what is known and what will be.”
“Futile labor. It does not matter how many men he plucks from the battlefields of Midgard, or what knowledge he gains from Mimir’s well, or how tall he builds the walls of Asgard, the fires will come and the world will break and Yggdrasil will burn.”
“Odin fights because he must, and his spirit lives within us. We go on because we must.”
And Raef nodded at this because those very words were in his own heart.
They waited until the fish were charred black, their skins crispy, before tearing into the white flesh with eager teeth. Raef ate with abandon, but Vakre’s appetite did not last long, and he did not finish his first trout. Raef gave him a questioning glance but Vakre’s only response was that he was tired. He turned away, wrapped tight in a fur, eyes closed to the vast sky, and seemed to sleep.
Leaving the warmth of the fire, Raef explored the bowl from end to end. There was little enough to see, a pile of cracked rocks where they had come to rest after tumbling down the cliff above, a shallow dip in the ground that had collected rain water now frozen to ice. The caves offered up only a pair of empty, rotting barrels, stashed there long ago, but Raef had not expected to find anything useful, for the nest had never been stocked with weapons or food stores or anything of value. Such preparations would require constant attention and a vigilant guard, which meant spilling the secret to more and more ears. And so the nest was sparse and Raef had known this and sought it still, for his father had told him once that the nest could not provide, but it could protect, and in the most desperate of times, that was enough.
His exploration complete, Raef settled down on the edge of the bowl, his legs dangling over the sharp drop, and slid a silver arm ring from its place on his wrist. His fingers ran across the familiar twists in the metal and along the beaks of the twin raven heads, but his eyes remained fixed on the clouds below as the valley and the fjord began to take shape. He would have given much for a bow to hunt with, and more for one hundred men to stand at his back with bright swords and strong shields, but he had none of these things. The nest might keep him safe, but it would not bring him Isolf’s head.
By the time the clouds burned away, the sun was high and Raef’s stomach was rumbling, the early morning fish long forgotten, but no sooner had Raef stood than the ship appeared, rounding the final bend in the fjord’s long journey, slipping through the last of the fog.
Raef, rooted to the spot, his heartbeat quickening, could only stare. The ship was small, manned by only four or five men if necessary, and the beast on its prow had been removed, as was customary in friendly waters. And yet its presence in this isolated, uninhabited piece of water was unnerving, no matter how few warriors it could hold. Seldom, even in summer, did ships venture so far up the fjord.
Up in the nest, the air was still, but Raef could see by the patterns on the surface of the fjord that the winds were brisk, and the ship’s grey sail was full. It would not be long before she made landing. Returning to the fire, Raef gathered every weapon he could carry and then hurried down into the valley, intent on reaching the shore before the ship.
He chose to wait and watch on a small point of land that arced out into the fjord. Should the ship aim for the shallow waters and safe beach at the mouth of the river, his position would give him a good look at the crew. Crouching between boulders, Raef watched a sea eagle cut across the sky and waited, the sharp wind numbing his cheeks.
The ship drew close, its prow pointed toward the river mouth, and Raef peered out at it, expecting to see men working the sail, to see the oars splashing into the water to guide her to land, to see a helmsman at th
e rudder, but he saw nothing. The sail rippled, the thick wool snapping in a gust of wind, but her deck was empty and the oars were stowed or missing. She was abandoned.
Raef, wondering if perhaps the crew had jumped ship, frightened or forced overboard, but suspecting that something more cunning was at work, stayed hidden. The sheer strake was unburdened by shields, but high enough to conceal a crouching man. The rudder might be fixed in place with ropes, the sail left in the care of the wind, all for the sake of stealth and surprise. Isolf had shown cunning in his capture of Vannheim; such an ambush would appeal to him. And so Raef waited.
The ship, with a groan and a shudder that made Raef wince, slid up against the rocky beach. The sinking tide would leave her stranded before nightfall, her hull riding slick, kelp-covered rocks instead of salty waves. But no orders were shouted and no men leaped over the side, splashing to shore with spears in hand. All was silence and still Raef waited.
Clouds filtered in from the west, high ones this time, streaking the sky with orange and pink as the sun sought the horizon. The winds that had battered the fjord by day vanished, leaving calm waters to lap against the shore. The fish would be stirring, searching out insects that walked the water, and the birds would be watching for telltale signs of silver scales in the blue fjord.
As the light died, so did Raef’s suspicions, and at last he allowed himself to rise and, rounding the curved shore to the beach, approach the strange ship, axe at the ready. No arrows were launched to pierce him, no spears were hurled to savage him, and Raef hauled himself over the sheer strake and landed with light feet on the smooth deck.
The ship was not deserted. A funeral pyre had been built at the stern. The wood was unburnt and freshly cut, rich with the scent of pine. A nest of kindling, ready to spark, sprouted from the sturdy logs. The body was richly dressed in a thick fabric of shimmering gold, the cloth threaded through with delicate strands of silver and copper, and for a moment Raef could not bring himself to look upon the woman’s face, for in his mind he saw Siv’s green eyes and red-gold hair.
