by T L Greylock
The mead skins were emptied, laughter was shared, and stories of battle and women and ruined crops were told. There was no talk of the giant’s corpse, as though giving voice to its presence would give strength to its meaning. Raef found his thoughts punctured repeatedly by Anuleif’s words burrowing into his mind, but, pushing the boy’s madness away, Raef stood and went to Rufnir, who was lamenting the empty state of the last skin of mead.
“I am sending you to Axsellund, Ruf. Tomorrow. Choose two of these men to go with you.”
Rufnir frowned. “What for?”
“Torleif of Axsellund made a promise, one that I kept secret from most, though Isolf may have learned of it. You must go to him and determine the strength of that promise.”
Rufnir shook his head. “My place is at your side.”
Raef put a hand on Rufnir’s shoulder. “Who among these men can I trust to go in your stead? They have cheered my name and they sit around my fire, but when our hopes fade around us, when our enemies close in, when blood is spilled, will they stand firm? I need you. You can speak with my voice for you know me better than most. And I know you will honor your oath to me until your last breath.”
Reluctance remained on Rufnir’s face, but he gave a slow nod. “I will go, if that is what you require of me.”
“It is. When you see Torleif, give him a sprig of cedar. He will understand.”
Rufnir nodded again. “I will take Fjolnir with me. He is quick with a blade.” Fair-haired and sharp-eyed Fjolnir was the youngest of the men who had followed Rufnir to the eagle’s nest.
“And the other?”
Rufnir’s gaze roamed over the warriors gathered around the fire. “Gullveig.” He was one of the farmers, a burly man with thick arms who spoke little.
“You must leave at first light and travel with all speed.”
Rufnir was quiet for a moment, his gaze fixed on an empty spot in the darkness over Raef’s shoulder. “Do you think we will ever take the sea road, Raef?” His voice was full of longing and Raef knew he thought of his brother, for Asbjork would never ride the waves again.
He was looking for hope and Raef chose to shatter it. “No, Ruf. Balder is dead. The last battle will be upon us soon. We have time only for blood and vengeance. I will win back Vannheim before the floods and the fires come, but the sea road,” Raef paused, his heart heavy, “the sea road is beyond us, a dream we will take to our deaths.”
Rufnir’s face filled with grim understanding, and there was new determination there. “Blood and vengeance, then.” He seemed to warm to the task Raef had given him. “I will return with the strength of Axsellund at my back, and we will descend upon the Vestrhall with swords and spears and your treacherous cousin will die screaming.”
“And a son of Bjarne will bring me victory.” Raef grinned and planted a kiss on Rufnir’s forehead. “I mean to send out others into the valleys of Vannheim. We must gather more men to us. And I will wait for your return.”
Rufnir, Fjolnir, and Gullveig descended from the nest in the grey light before dawn. The men who remained watched with solemn faces, their breath forming clouds of vapor that hung in the still air, until the three figures disappeared into the trees below. One by one, they turned away until only Raef and Anuleif lingered at the overlook.
“Will the lord of Axsellund fulfill his promise?” Anuleif’s voice was small in the cold, grey morning, but the words rang in Raef’s ears as though the boy had shouted.
Raef chose not to answer.
“You are without a hall and you are hiding in your own wilderness. He may choose to turn his back.” Anuleif cocked his head. “But that would mean risking the wrath of Odin, for to turn his back on you would be to turn his back on his named king.”
Raef flinched and turned to stare at the boy. “Why do you call me a named king?”
“Because that is what you are.”
“Not once have I been called king in your presence. How could you know this?”
“I have told you. I have dreamed.”
The rising sun saw more men depart the eagle’s nest, six sent out to delve into the deep valleys and high hills in search of warriors to bolster Raef’s strength.
“Keep clear of the Vestrhall,” Raef told the men, “and speak only to those known to you. I will not have strangers brought back to the nest.” He looked each in the eyes, searching for signs of betrayal. If any deceit festered in those irises of brown and blue and green, it was well concealed. The six men left the nest as one. They would fill their skins with river water and then separate, carrying Raef’s hopes to the east, north, south, and west.
The man left behind, called Tuli, planted himself on the overlook, spear in hand, as though he meant to keep watch, and he did not stray from the edge until the sun was past its highest point, and even then he only stepped away to relieve his bladder. Vakre muttered something about Tuli’s watchfulness putting him on edge and left the nest. Raef did not try to stop him. Visna separated herself from the others, climbing a short distance up the sides of the bowl to a ledge, her dislike of Anuleif apparent in her scowl and narrowed eyes.
When the sun began to sink out of the sky, Raef went to Tuli and placed a hand on the warrior’s shoulder. “You watch as well as Heimdall, Tuli. Come sit by the fire and warm yourself.” Tuli grinned at the praise, his wide face spreading to show uneven teeth, and did as Raef said. As he stoked the fire, Anuleif, who had spent much of the daylight carving bits of wood with a small knife, retreated to the back of the bowl, ducking into the mouth of one of the small caves. In the growing shadows, Raef soon lost sight of him.
With the boy gone, Visna descended from her perch.
“The boy is mad. Let me slit his throat so that we might be rid of him.”
“No,” Raef said. He had been waiting for this. “He has done us no harm.”
“Do you not see it in his eyes?” Visna stepped close to Raef.
“I see it.” Raef refused to say more.
Visna frowned, marring her blue eyes with anger. “Then send him away,” she said. “He will bring only misfortune and suffering.”
“You show little sympathy for one who has much in common with Anuleif.” Raef let his voice grow sharp and was glad to see Visna felt the sting. She drew back and spit on the ground between them.
“We share nothing.”
“He is alone in this world, as you are. Do not be so quick to denounce him for that.”
Visna’s eyes flared in recognition of this unwanted truth. “His delusions and dreams will poison the minds of others and you will regret not emptying his life blood into these stones.” She turned away and brushed past Vakre, who had returned with silent footfalls and heard all. Raef watched the Valkyrie stalk away, then turned to Vakre with a heavy sigh.
“She will be at his throat soon enough,” Raef said. “I have gathered a pair of wolves into my nest. I must find a way to build a truce between them.”
Vakre dropped an armful of wood by the fire. “You cannot tame her, Raef. She was born and bred for a single purpose, to kill that which she has condemned. If they both stay here, they will not survive each other.”
“I will not choose between them. They are both drowning, though they do not know it.”
“The choice may not be yours to make. But tell me, do you pity the boy, or do you hear some truth in his words?”
Raef looked at Vakre but found he was unwilling to answer. Vakre did not seem surprised at the silence.
“I hear what you hear, Raef. Though why Anuleif has come to us and what his purpose might be, I do not know.” Vakre held out a slender object wrapped in brown linen. “Here.”
“What is it?” Raef asked.
“I will let you see for yourself. I discovered it on Visna’s ship.”
Raef unwrapped the cloth with careful hands and felt leather beneath. When the linen fell away, he was holding a scabbard of simple leather, unembellished and dark with age. The sword’s hilt was black and glossy, smooth as ice, a
nd it felt warm to Raef’s touch as he wrapped the fingers of his left hand around it. He had revealed no more than a finger’s width of the blade when Visna was there, her hand grasping tight over the naked steel. When Raef looked up, her eyes were hard and fierce.
“That is mine.”
“And yet you left it, forgotten, abandoned,” Vakre said. Raef did not release his grip on the sword.
Visna flinched at Vakre’s accusation. “It is mine by right.” She stared hard at the sword. “And mine to part with.”
Raef pried the sword from her grip and eased the blade out of the scabbard. The steel was dark and rippled with shadows. “I saw you wield a sword of sunlight, bright and blazing and hard to look upon. There is not a spark of light here.”
Visna was pale now and her voice scarcely more than a whisper. “No. Nor will there be until it is claimed by the right hand.” Her hand shook as she reached out for the sword. Raef let her take it. The steel remained dull and Raef saw a glimmer of hope fade in Visna’s eyes. When she spoke again, her voice was flat. “This is the sword of a Valkyrie. Once it was mine and once I looked upon the faces of men and chose who would die by its edge. I can no longer remember their faces.” She sheathed the sword. “My father has given me a final task.” Visna looked from Raef to Vakre and back again. “There must be nine. Nine Valkyries riding the storm clouds, nine streaking to the battlefield, nine at the Allfather’s side.”
Visna let out a sharp laugh and cast her gaze to the sky. “Is this your final punishment, Father? That I must seek out and discover she who will replace me? That I must hand over the weapon that exists as a part of me, a limb, an eye, a piece of my heart? That I alone must sever the last link to the life I have known?” Tears spilled onto Visna’s cheeks and she did not attempt to hide them. “I would curse you if I knew how, Father, but I do not have the words for there is only love in my heart for you. And that is the hardest thing of all. I want to hate you, but I cannot.” Visna stared at the stars for a moment longer and then let the sword fall to the ground. She looked at Raef through tear-laden eyes, her face more open and honest than he had ever seen it, then turned and left the fire’s light. When she returned at dawn, she was cold and hard and would not speak of the sword
For five days and five nights, Raef kept his vigil in the eagle’s nest, each day wearing longer than the last as his uneasy, guarded companions circled around him in a tangle of unspoken threats. On the sixth day, they were no longer alone.
SIX
There was no banner, no horns, and few enough men, Raef could see, even from his high vantage point. They had come not long after the sunlight had cascaded into the valley, spilling over the snow-covered trees with a golden glow that reminded Raef of summer. The icy air that nipped at his ears and reddened his cheeks banished those warm thoughts as Raef caught sight of the men that came from the east, following in the footsteps of the sun. They might have passed under the nest and reached the edge of the fjord unnoticed were it not for a bare patch of open land just east of the nest that grazed the shore of the river. It was there that Raef spotted them by chance, catching the glint of sunlight on something that was not water, tree, rock, or snow.
A quick word to Tuli and their fire, hissing and spitting in protest, was smothered, sending a spiral of smoke skyward that was soon lost in the blue. Vakre stepped to Raef’s side as the men reached the end of the bare land and disappeared once more into the trees.
“Yours?” Vakre asked, his eyes not leaving the valley, searching always for the next sighting.
“Perhaps.”
They waited in strained silence, hearing nothing but the river rushing over rocks and the faint calls between birds. At last Raef could stand it no longer.
“If they were mine, they would be here, not skulking among the trees.” Raef retreated from the overlook and retrieved his scabbard, then slid his axe into his belt on his left hip next to the long knife that already lay there. Vakre armed himself as well and Visna began to do the same, but Raef stopped the Valkyrie before she reached her borrowed sword.
“Stay. Keep watch for others.” Visna began to protest but Raef was in no mood to hear it. He turned and climbed over the side of the nest, leaving the Valkyrie to sulk.
“Will she listen?” Vakre asked as he followed Raef down the slope.
“Unlikely.”
They reached the tree line and slowed their descent as they headed for the river. The woods around them were quiet and still, the snow marked only by the prints of small animals and a few deer, and they, after passing by the melted snow and scorched ground where Vakre had burned the giant’s corpse, reached the river without sight or sound of the party of men. Raef turned east, following the riverbank, and now they walked with great care, keeping close to the thickest bushes and branches to avoid unwanted eyes.
“Do you hear that?” Vakre asked, frozen in his tracks. Raef stopped and strained to listen. There, the sound of voices, one first, dim and distant, then others joining in. Raef crouched and crept onward.
The men were gathered at the river’s edge, clustered among slender birch trees and sturdy oaks. Some held the reins of horses and were heavily armed, others carried only spears and shields, once painted, now worn to dull reds and yellows and chipped black.
Raef nodded to Vakre and the son of Loki slipped through the trees to circle around the clearing and get a full count of the warriors. Raef, his view barred by snow-laden pine branches, ducked low and crawled closer, eager to glimpse the faces of those who trespassed so close to the eagle’s nest.
One man still sat in his saddle, his horse hemmed in by the others, and he was speaking, though the river water carried away the sound of his voice. With a tug of the reins, he turned the horse and dismounted and Raef sucked in breath at the sight of his face. Fengar, lord of Solheim and the would-be king, had come to Vannheim.
Vakre reappeared at Raef’s side and whispered that he counted forty-three men but some were there against their will, bound at the wrist by ropes. The crowd parted as one of these captives was pushed forward by a man of ancient face and hunched back. A black crow’s feather was tied in the old man’s white hair and a pair of pale medallions that hung from his neck rattled against each other as he prodded the prisoner toward Fengar. The old man delivered a sharp rap to the prisoner’s shoulder with a stout shaft, sending him to his knees.
“This one, lord,” the old man said.
War had changed Fengar. When first Raef had seen the would-be king, Fengar’s face had been open, almost friendly, the face of a man surprised to be named king. Later, he had gained a measure of confidence and poise, as if he were beginning to believe in the fate that had swelled up around him. Now his cheekbones were more pronounced, his eyes less bright, his whole posture closed off and wary. He eyed the man at his feet with obvious distaste, but he was no warmer toward the old man and Raef sensed Fengar would be rid of both if he could.
Fengar said something too quiet for Raef to hear, but the old man’s reaction spoke loud enough for both.
“The gods do not bestow victory upon cowards. You have lost their favor, Fengar. We must win it back.”
“With this man’s blood?” Fengar’s voice rose but held no conviction. “What is this man to Odin Allfather, or to Thor?”
“Does the Hammerling shrink from such duties? Does he fear the necessary sacrifices? A skinny winter rabbit is no longer enough.” Though bent and brittle, the old man spoke with utter belief.
Fengar scowled and Raef could see his nostrils flare, but whether it was from anger at the old man or at the mention of his rival, the Hammerling, Raef could not say. Perhaps both. “Do it.” The words were uttered through clenched teeth and Fengar turned away and pushed through the men until he reached the riverbank.
The old man took no joy in Fengar’s decision, but grabbed the prisoner’s cloak with a bony hand and pulled, forcing the man to scramble after him on hands and knees. The gathered men spread out, giving the old man a clear pat
h to the closest tree, their eyes watching every move with nervous anticipation. Two other bound men and one woman cowered as the old man passed them by, but they might have been worms in the dirt for all the attention he gave them. He gave a sharp whistle, summoning a beardless boy, and together they stripped the captive to the waist and lashed him to the tree, arms stretched wide to echo the shape of the oak’s branches. Without a word, the old man pulled a small knife and skewered the man’s left hand to the bark. The shriek pierced the uneasy silence and the old man stepped back as though to admire his work. The boy produced another knife, this one long and lean and set in a bone handle. The old man took it and, with a few muttered words that Raef could not make out, stepped close to the shivering, sobbing prisoner and began to carve into his pale belly. The sobs turned to moans and screams and then the air was filled with the smell of piss and shit.
In a moment, the prisoner’s head sank to his chest, though Raef could see his eyelids fluttered still, and the old man went on with his work with precision. The warriors watched with horror and fascination etched on their faces. Fengar kept his back to the bloody sacrifice.
When the old man had finished, the captive was dead, his entrails strung up around him, the ravaged belly a mass of mutilated, bloody flesh. With a last flick of his knife, the old man cut a lock of hair from the dead man, held it to his nose, then tied it next to one of the medallions that hung from his neck. Raef saw then that the fresh strand of hair was not alone and the medallions were smooth, worn bone.
Only then did Fengar turn and survey what had been done and Raef saw him lick his lips and swallow at the display before him. “What now, Griva? Will Odin himself descend from Asgard and fight alongside me?” There was mockery in Fengar’s voice and face, but a sharp look from Griva sent it fleeing, leaving only weariness behind. “Let us be gone from this place,” Fengar said, his gaze roaming back to the river and the trees on the far shore. “I do not like it here.”
