by T L Greylock
“No,” Griva said, and though Fengar had returned to his horse, it was the old man whose voice commanded the warriors. Not a single one stirred and all watched Griva, who was assessing his sacrifice. He traced a finger along the dead man’s chest until he reached the savaged belly, then he touched the lock of hair he had taken, his mouth forming silent words. “This is a good place. We must stay.”
Fengar looked as though he wanted to argue, but something made him hold his tongue. “Very well.” The king summoned a warrior to his side. “Send out riders so the others might find us. We will await them here.” Now the warriors surged to life, and soon they separated, two returning to the east on fleet-footed horses, the rest surging further along the river in search of decent ground to make camp. Raef and Vakre drew back into the trees and underbrush and waited until they had passed from sight, then followed at a distance.
A spot was chosen close to where the river spilled into the fjord and it was not long before the smell of charred wood brought curious men to the place where the giant had fallen from Jötunheim. One by one they filtered through the trees until Fengar’s entire host stood in the clearing. Raef and Vakre watched from higher ground. The clearing was free from snow and scorched where Vakre had set his blaze. Nothing remained of the corpse and the only sign of violence was the trees splintered by the giant’s limbs. Fengar’s men muttered to each other and a few reached out to touch the Thor hammers that hung from their necks, eying those around them to see if they did so alone.
“A lightning strike.” Griva seemed sure of himself and the men agreed, some with quick laughs and crude jokes to shake off the nerves that had sent them reaching for their amulets.
Fengar ordered the men back to the river to set up shelters, but they had gone only a few steps when shouts rang out and swords were drawn. In the confusion, Raef could not see what had caused the commotion, but then, with a sharp word from Fengar, the warriors went still, giving Raef a better view. Beside him, Vakre swore under his breath.
Visna stood at the edge of the clearing, her arm wrapped tight around Griva’s chest, her sword pressed against his long, thin neck. The old man did not struggle and his face was calm.
“Your skald dies if any of you move,” Visna shouted. “And then I will kill the rest of you.”
For a moment Fengar seemed content to let her kill Griva, but Raef could see the agitation on the faces of the warriors and knew the king would lose the loyalty of each and every man if he let the old man die. Fengar knew it, too. He held out his hands to show he did not threaten. “He is no skald.”
Visna frowned. “What other purpose does an old man have?”
“He is,” Fengar paused, “skilled in many things.” Raef had thought the old man a priest of Odin and was surprised to not hear him named so.
“Then if you value his skills you will do as I say.”
With a cry, a warrior charged from Visna’s right. Moving with deadly speed, she shoved Griva to the ground, whirled, sliced, and killed with a single motion. Griva was collared and the steel, dripping now with a dead man’s blood, returned to his throat before he had a chance to move.
Fengar grimaced. “Name your price.”
Visna’s gaze shot across the clearing, behind Fengar, to where the three captives stood. “I want her.”
The woman turned and ran.
For a moment, no one moved, then Fengar shouted for someone to chase after her. Three men sprinted into the trees, but Raef had moved first. There was little time to think, but he did not intend to leave Visna alone. No matter how deadly she had proved herself to be, she was no longer a Valkyrie and he did not trust her to remember this.
The woman was headed toward him and Raef only needed to step out from the trees to bring her down. They landed with a thud and the woman began to scream, but Raef was deaf to her pleas as he led her back to the clearing, Vakre at his side. The three warriors slid to a halt as he approached, hands going to sword hilts, but a burst of flame from Vakre sent them reeling, their faces ashen, eyes staring. Raef entered the clearing unimpeded.
“Skallagrim.” Fengar’s voice was hushed, but then he rounded on Griva, who was still in Visna’s bloody grasp. “You said he was dead.”
“The gods love chaos,” Griva said, grimacing as his throat moved against Visna’s blade.
Fengar looked once more at Raef and gestured to the woman in his grip. “This woman means something to you?”
“No.”
Fengar frowned. “Then why interfere?”
“Because these are my lands.”
“And I am king.”
“Not my king.”
Fengar’s gaze flickered and he did not look Raef in the eye. “Well, woman,” he said, facing Visna now. “There is your prize. Let him go.”
Visna shoved Griva to the ground, her gaze fixed now on the woman who clutched at Raef in fear. But she had taken no more than two steps when Griva hissed a curse at her and Visna turned, eyes flashing, steel carving a path through the air toward the old man’s chest.
Raef saw the blonde women too late. Like wolves, they sprang at Visna, and her death blow turned into a desperate, swinging defense as they attacked her from both sides. Raef leaped forward, his movements hampered by the woman at his side, and the butt end of a spear plowed into his chest, sending him backward. Before he could move again, the spear point was at his throat and a grizzled warrior, face hidden by a thick black beard, barred his way. Behind the warrior, Visna was on her knees, panting, blood running down her face, her sword out of reach, and the blonde women, two of the so-called Daughters of Thor, stood over her in triumph.
Raef felt the rush of heat and thrust his arm back, palm out, to where Vakre smoldered just behind him. “No, Vakre.” The heat faded but did not disappear. Raef looked at Fengar, who had not moved, had not given an order. “Call them off. We are not here to fight.”
Fengar hesitated, uncertainty clouding his eyes. Griva sidled up beside the king and whispered into Fengar’s ear. Fengar flinched away from the old man’s touch, but the doubt fled from his face. “Bind them.”
They fought, Visna screaming in fury, Raef beating back the bear-like warrior, Vakre lunging for one of the blonde sisters, but the opponents were too many. An arrow pierced Raef’s shoulder and dizziness swarmed over his vision in an instant. Raef, sluggish, stared down at the white fletching and then at his empty hands. His sword was gone, though he did not know he had dropped it, and then he was on the ground. The beating was merciless and Raef fought to stay conscious, sucking in air when he could, striking out with his feet in vain. By the time he felt the ropes cut into the skin of his wrists, his vision was reduced to a blur of light slashed through with shadows, and then all was darkness.
SEVEN
“He is no use to me dead.”
The voice was both grating to Raef’s ears and hard to hear, the words a jumble in his mind until sense was made of them.
“The poison will wear off, lord. It is my own blend.” The second voice was faint, light, a drop of water beyond reach. Raef fought to open his eyes and for a moment thought he had failed to do so. Then the stars came into focus. He could see little else and nothing of the voices in the dark. The ground was cold beneath him but free of snow and he began to understand the shape of a crude half-shelter fashioned together of wood and branches and skins.
“For your sake, I hope you are telling the truth.” The third voice was deeper than the first two, harsh and unfriendly.
“I do not make a habit of lying to lords.” Female. Yes. The second voice belonged to a woman. “He will wake. The wound itself is minimal and has been cleaned and stitched. It was my poison that brought him down so quickly.” Raef traced a finger along his shoulder, feeling the puckered skin and gut stitches beneath his woolen layers.
“And the others?” The first voice returned and Raef, certain it belonged to Fengar, could now tell the three speakers were to his left.
“Brought down by more unciviliz
ed means.” There was no doubting the disdain in the woman’s voice. It had to be Vakre and Visna she spoke of and Raef’s heartbeat spiked. “But they, too, will return to the light.” Alive, then.
The deep voice said, “Cast off the spares, lord. They are of no use.”
There was a moment of silence. “Perhaps. But better to wait and see.”
Raef heard a shuffling of feet and a sigh that suggested impatience. “As you wish,” the deep voice replied.
“The moment any of them wakes, bring them to me,” Fengar said.
“Yes, lord,” the woman said. Boots crunched on snow and then all was silent. Raef, his head clearer now, twisted to his left side. A single figure stood not far from him. The woman. She turned and walked out of Raef’s sightline, leaving him to lie in the dark, trying to summon the will to overcome the poison in his limbs. He struggled into a sitting position, his movement hampered by the ropes around his wrists and ankles. Discerning a shape slumped against a thick spray of pine branch, Raef scooted over the ground until he could make out a face by starlight.
A bruise covered Vakre’s left cheekbone, but there were no other visible injuries. The son of Loki’s breathing was steady and Raef prodded him with a toe, then his elbow, until Vakre stirred. Blinking, Vakre raised his head.
“Raef?”
“Yes.”
“What were you thinking?” Vakre grinned and then winced and touched the bruise on his cheek. “Had to get involved. Reckless.”
Raef tried to smile, but it quickly slipped from his face. “I could not leave a daughter of Odin alone among them.”
“No,” Vakre said, solemn now, “though I would like to know what inspired her foolish action.” Vakre leaned back and closed his eyes. “Are you hurt?”
“I took a poisoned arrow. Bruised ribs. Little else.”
Approaching footsteps silenced them and Raef looked over his shoulder to see the woman returning.
“Awake, I see.” She stood over them, her face obscured by darkness and a hood. Raef said nothing. “Then it is time you were brought before the king.”
The king was ensconced in a circle of warmth, shielded from the night air by thick skins. He was half-dressed, and the woman who Visna had risked all for was tugging her dress down over her shoulders, her face hidden by strands of dull brown hair. She did not react to the arrival of Raef and Vakre, but kept her head down.
“The prisoners, lord,” the female archer said. A sharp finger in Raef’s shoulder, near the wound she had given him, prompted him to take a knee.
“Now? I am busy.” Fengar plucked at his belt, loosening the buckle, his voice impatient, but little enthusiasm showing.
“You said the moment either wakes, lord.”
Fengar looked about to argue, to impose his will as king, but Raef could see his heart was not in it. “Very well. She smells of sheep.” The woman was ushered out, and Fengar gestured for the female archer to go as well, leaving Raef and Vakre to bear the full brunt of Fengar’s scrutiny.
“So. Skallagrim. Once more you are at my mercy.” Fengar resettled his cloak on his shoulders and clasped it. He did not look Raef in the eye. “Stefnir wanted me to kill you last time. He would say so again if he were here.”
“What do you say, lord? You are king, are you not?”
At last Fengar met Raef’s gaze. “I am.” There was nothing fierce in his voice and Raef wondered how much conviction lingered in the lord of Solheim. “I let you live once. I am not inclined to do so again.”
“Yet?” For Raef was certain there was more.
“Yet you are likely to possess knowledge that would be valuable to me.” Fengar’s gaze slid to Vakre, who had remained silent. “And yet this one,” Fengar cocked his head, “this one I think is more trouble than he is worth. I have heard what you are, Vakre Flamecloak, heard about the battle at the burning lake. Your uncle has told me all.” Vakre stared hard at Fengar and the king looked away first. “As for that woman, the wild one, perhaps she will be more appealing than the sheep woman. Perhaps I will take her into my bed. What did she want with my prisoner?”
“Griva does not have the answer for that? Your men hang upon his every word, Fengar. I do not think they would know how to find their own cocks if he did not tell them. I had thought to see him here.”
Fengar scowled. “Griva has his uses but he does not command me.” He stepped close to Raef, his breath heavy with the scent of ale. “I ask again, what did the woman want with my prisoner?”
“I do not know. You would have to ask her.”
“You are free with your words, Skallagrim. A wiser man might make an effort to be humble. Your father was such a man.”
Raef let the barb slide over him. “And yet I am wise enough to see you for what you are, a lost king, fleeing through the wilderness from a stronger foe, clinging to your last few warriors in hopes that their shields will stay strong.”
With a roar, Fengar buried his fist in Raef’s ribs. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Raef hunched but did not bow his head. Fengar’s shout drew the blonde sisters into the shelter, and they waited only for Fengar’s command, teeth barred and ready to strike. A hand raised by Fengar kept their weapons sheathed, though they strained like foxes trapped in a snare.
“Get them out of my sight,” Fengar growled. The sisters gripped Raef and Vakre by the arms and pulled them from the shelter back into the biting embrace of the winter night.
“You were three once,” Vakre said, eyeing the sister who led him. Her long braid hung down to the small of her back and she did not respond. “Daughters of Thor, they call you.” Vakre let the words whisper into the night. “Invincible,” he taunted. “Where has your sister gone, I wonder?” The sisters walked on, undeterred, but Vakre persisted. “Strange that only two should stand guard over Fengar now.”
They had returned to the makeshift shelter and in silence the sisters bound them to each other. As one, the blonde women rose from their task and turned their backs on Raef and Vakre. Neither looked back as Vakre called out one last time.
“I know her fate.” The slightest hitch in one’s stride brought a grin to Vakre’s face and he looked to Raef. “That one will be back before morning.”
“You have your father’s sly tongue,” Raef said. Vakre’s grin grew wide and wolfish.
The daughter of Thor did not return before dawn as Vakre had predicted, but Visna was brought to share the same open-faced shelter, and bowls of hot broth came not long after. Raef and Vakre emptied their bowls quickly, but Visna’s remained untouched, the steam rising furiously at first, then in feeble bursts until the heat was gone. The Valkyrie sat unmoving, her face, once bright, now dull. A gash at her hairline was crusted with blood. Her lower lip was split and bruised. Her golden hair was matted and her blue eyes were grey. If not for the tiny pulse at her throat, she hardly seemed to live.
Raef encouraged her to eat, to speak, but if she heard him she did not respond. She stared at the ground, hands clenched in her lap, and at last Raef left her to her silence.
“Tuli will wonder at our absence,” Raef said. Though he knew the eagle’s nest was out of sight, masked by the tall trees, he yearned to look up, to seek out the steep slope leading to the bowl, the dark shadows hiding horses, a man, and one small boy. But he dared not risk even the briefest glance.
Vakre nodded. “Let us hope he is not overcome with sudden bravery.”
“Fengar has not asked why we have crossed paths in such a remote place.”
Vakre scoffed. “Fengar is not clever enough to wonder about such things.”
“He has asked me nothing about Vannheim, Vannheim’s warriors, about the Hammerling.”
“He is lost, as you said. Without Stefnir of Gornhald to guide him, to pull a string of wit from his skull, he is nothing. He is riddled with uncertainty.”
“Or he intends to ask us nothing at all.” Raef met Vakre’s eyes and saw his own thoughts mirrored there, despite the son of Loki’s words. “If he gives us
to Griva’s knife, he will please his warriors.”
Vakre’s eyes flashed with anger. “The sun will sink and the seas will rise before I let that old man gut me.”
“Then let us hope the nest soon becomes home to a hundred warriors.”
The day passed in slow agony, measured by the lengthening shadows. Those of Fengar’s men who ventured close enough eyed them with furtive glances, but most kept their distance and none spoke a word. Griva came to stand at the river’s edge once, lingering there while the sun started to slip behind the trees, and he carried the sword that Visna had threatened him with, not as a warrior would, but as a man studying something unknown. He let it rest across his palms, the dark steel stark against his pale skin, and examined the edge, holding it out over the rushing river, and once Raef caught him staring at Visna, but even he did not open his mouth to the prisoners.
It was dark when a face in the moonlight stirred Raef out of his thoughts. Anuleif, his thick array of pelts pulled high over his ears so that only his narrow nose and blue eyes showed, was suddenly at the side of their shelter.
“They will catch you,” Vakre muttered. Alert now, he and Raef had crawled forward to speak. Raef peered over Vakre’s bent head, gaze fixed on the closest group of warriors. The three men with tall spears stood over a small, flickering fire and their eyes were turned inward. For now.
“Yes,” Anuleif said. There was no concern in his voice. “They are many and I am but one. But they are tired and their minds wander to the homes they have left behind and the ale skin they emptied two days ago. I have time to say what I have come to say.”
Raef’s heartbeat quickened as Anuleif’s gaze shifted to him and he felt the stare of those uncanny eyes as surely as he felt the sun on a warm day. It beat into his bones, into his core, and for a moment, there was nothing but Anuleif’s face, no Vakre, no Visna, no ropes binding his arms.
“Son of Skallagrim, I know now why I dreamed of you. You know what lies ahead, what hurtles toward us, unyielding. You know our fate. Balder is dead and even now the wolf has gained his freedom. Jötunheim is seething with fury and Jörmungand stirs in the watery depths he calls home. Alfheim is all darkness and despair. Midgard is breaking at the seams. It will not be long now before the cocks begin to crow.” Anuleif paused and a strange smile came to his mouth. There was color in his lips and cheeks where none had been before and Raef felt sure that if the boy were to strip naked, the scars that circled his skin would smolder and crack, revealing fire beneath the surface.
