by T L Greylock
Vakre was moving before Raef could react. He did not touch his uncle, but the flames that sprouted from his hand licked at Romarr’s face, causing him to jerk backward, nearly losing his footing. Then Vakre, his hands left unbound from when he had relieved his bladder, grabbed the fur collar of his uncle’s cloak and hauled him in close, singeing Romarr’s thick, dark beard with his flaming hand.
“Would you like to burn, uncle?” Vakre’s voice was soft, soothing, almost wistful. Romarr had eyes only for the tendrils of fire and could not find his words. “I thought not,” Vakre said. Raef was the only one to react, the only one who did not stand in mute shock, and he laid a hand on Vakre’s arm. But a quick glance at Vakre’s face told him the son of Loki was in control. An ocean of anger swelled within, but the surface was calm and unthreatening. It was an unnerving sight.
“You cast her out, ashamed and afraid of your own sister, when all she did was bear a child, a child of your own blood.”
“The gods will curse you, Vakre Lokison,” Romarr shouted, finding his voice at last, spit flying from his mouth.
With a flick of his wrist, Vakre released his uncle, who lurched back, and the flames vanished. Vakre flashed a feral smile and said to any who might listen, “Take care with this one. There is no honest, true bone in his body.”
His voice broke the stillness and the captain Romarr had been speaking with lashed out. A long knife flashed from his belt and another, this one short and brutal, appeared from behind his back. He advanced on Vakre, twirling the short knife, his rugged face cracked open by a cruel smile, but a shout brought him to a halt. It was not Romarr who stopped him, but Fengar, approaching and flanked by the two daughters of Thor.
“The time for their deaths will come, but it is not now,” Fengar said. The captain grunted and, smiling still, lowered his blades. He did not take his eyes from Vakre and Raef felt a twisting in his gut at sight of the eager glint in the knifeman’s expression. Fengar would not look at his prisoners. “Come,” the king said to Romarr, whose fear had turned to rage and reddened his face. “Valdemar, the only eyes I have left to me, will be here soon and we must talk.”
It was some time before Vakre opened his mouth to speak after they were shoved back into their shelter. Visna greeted them with only silence. Raef, his hands newly bound, worked on the fire as best he could, sending a shower of sparks into the air as he stirred it with his boot. He maneuvered a fresh log onto the embers, then sat down to wait. The log was black on one side before the son of Loki unknotted his tongue.
“My uncle never ceases to remind me that my birth made my mother’s life difficult, that she lost everything. I only sought to remind him that he is as much to blame. He treated her like filth. I should have killed him long ago.”
“What stayed your hand?”
“Killing him is what my father would have done. It would have confirmed everything my uncle believed about me. My mother made me understand this. To seek justice for what he did to her, while I still feel in my heart is right, would brand me forever as Loki’s murderous son. I must not be that.”
“The knifeman,” Raef said, “who is he? I do not like him.”
“Nor should you. He is Ulthor Ten-blade, or so he calls himself. He is cruel beyond measure. I was a boy of eight when I learned this. I watched him feed a dog a sausage, then, when the mutt rolled on its back, begging for a belly scratch, Ulthor slid his knife in again and again. More than once I have asked my uncle to rid himself of such a beast, for he knows only malice. My uncle likes to think him a loyal hound, well leashed. He will break the leash, and when he does, Finnmark will suffer for it.”
“He means to kill you,” Raef said.
“He may try.” Vakre snarled his response and Raef felt heat gushing from his friend’s skin. He tensed, thinking the flames might burst out and consume him, but the warmth faded, leaving Raef with a question on his tongue, a question he had delayed asking.
“How long has it been, Vakre, since you no longer needed your father’s cloak?”
Vakre’s gaze darted to Raef’s face and there was surprise hidden there. “You saw? When?” He would not look at Visna, who was watching them carefully, her eyes no longer empty.
“You were not wearing it when you burned the giant.”
Vakre opened his mouth to speak, but he hesitated and Raef heard uncertainty in the silence. “I did not intend for anyone to know. Even you.” Raef waited until Vakre continued. “It was the day the fog blanketed the valley, our first morning in the nest. You went to catch fish and I,” Vakre paused, “I discovered that my skin had become cloak enough.” Vakre looked at Raef. “The flames no longer weaken me as they once did.”
Visna, who had listened in silence, broke in. “Surely a cause to be glad. Many would give much to have such a gift.”
Vakre did not share her enthusiasm. “I feel only dread.”
The early morning sunshine soon vanished behind a thick wall of clouds and the storm was upon them before midday. The valley waited under a boiling, writhing sky, and then the snow fell in sharp, windy bursts that stung Raef’s eyes. He, Vakre, and Visna huddled in their shelter and watched as the world grew white around them.
When the storm broke, shafts of light split through the clouds and Raef crawled from the shelter. The world was even more brilliant than he had imagined. Beyond the close pines, the valley stretched out, awash in glittering snow, and a stiff breeze blew the last, lagging clouds westward, freeing this small patch of the world from the storm’s grasp. Raef drew deep breaths of crisp, cold air, his eyes closed as he listened to the chatter of birds in the high branches. The horses, massed together nearby, stomped their feet and shook their manes, glad to be under the sun once more.
Raef, shutting out the sounds and smells of men, let himself find a moment of joy in the harsh beauty of the world, let himself imagine that Siv stood at his side, her hand in his, a smile on her face, her heart beating in time with the earth.
Raef rubbed his bound wrists against his chest, massaging the cold away as best he could, then went to empty his bladder. Before he had finished, a figure brushed into the corner of his vision and then leaned in close and blew a hot breath into Raef’s ear.
“Should I fetch the girl? She could help you with that.” Ulthor Ten-blade’s breath stank of garlic and rotten teeth but Raef resisted the urge to draw back while fastening his belt as best he could without full use of his hands. “Or perhaps you would prefer to have your friend, Lokison, lend a hand?”
Raef did not rise to the bait. “Be gone.” He turned away but Ulthor grabbed him and Raef spun around, coming face to face with Ten-blade.
“You think to tell me what to do? I am Ulthor Ten-blade.”
“I know who you are.”
“Ah, has the cursed half god told you? Did he mention my fondness for eyes? Yours are very fine. Perhaps I will take them from you.” The knife was out, twirling in Ulthor’s hand. Raef could see it though he kept his gaze fixed on Ten-blade’s face. At that close distance, the knifeman’s gaze was unsettling, for his eyes were mismatched, one blue, one brown.
Ten-blade laughed, but there was no mirth in it, and then the knife was gone as quickly as it had come and Raef was alone by the river once more.
The storm had delayed the anticipated arrival of Valdemar, and the king’s anxiety at this spread through the camp. Raef heard mutterings about ill luck, about the gods laughing at them, and he saw Griva and Fengar arguing, though the distance was too great to make out their words. They parted with angry gestures that did not go unnoticed by many, but then a long, low note of a horn sounded, racing to them on the swift river, and followed by five riders. As Fengar’s men began to gather, one man slumped and fell from his horse. Three others dismounted and clustered around their companion, but the fifth remained tall and straight in his saddle. He was dark of hair and eye, and his gaze bore down on Fengar. A scar, puckered and pink, ran down the side of his neck, curved around to the front of his chest, and
disappeared beneath his cloak. This was Valdemar, the broken man. Raef had heard his name, had wondered why he was called such. Now he wondered how far the scar descended.
“What news?” Fengar looked as though he would rather not hear the answer.
Valdemar dismounted, his face grim, and stood close to Fengar to speak in the king’s ear. The wounded man was carried away, and the crowd thinned until Raef had a good view of the king and his captain.
“Perhaps the Hammerling has sniffed out Fengar’s trail,” Vakre said.
“Or perhaps Valdemar brings word of Vannheim, of my naming as king, of the men I sent to gather a host here.”
Fengar was speaking and Raef watched as Valdemar’s frown grew deeper. The broken man glanced at Raef, then he was striding toward them, Fengar not far behind. Raef stood his ground as Valdemar seized him by the shoulder and pressed a knife to his throat.
“What brought you here, Skallagrim? Speak!”
“I am unarmed. My hands are bound. You need not threaten me.”
Valdemar snarled and pressed the blade harder against Raef’s skin. “Answer me.”
Visna looked to Fengar. “Lord, we are your prisoners. Skallagrim has done you no harm.”
Fengar looked uncertain and it was a different voice that snaked into Raef’s ears. “Soft words from a soft woman.” Ulthor Ten-blade stepped between Visna and Fengar, just on the edge of Raef’s vision. He took a strand of Visna’s hair between his fingers and raised it to his nose, inhaling deeply. Visna stiffened and recoiled. “Taken a liking to the lord of Vannheim, lady? Do you wish to save his pretty skin?” Ten-blade twisted the hair around his fingers. “If you want a good fucking, you need only ask.”
Fengar came to life. “Enough.” Ten-blade grinned and released Visna’s hair, then came to stand by Valdemar. Raef could feel his hot breath, could feel those mismatched eyes bore into him, but he kept his focus on the broken man.
“The knife stays until you speak,” Valdemar said, paying no mind to Ten-blade. “The truth now, son of Einarr.”
“What is truth, when it is balanced on a sharp blade?” Raef said.
Fengar stepped forward. “You told Alvar you were to visit Bergoss on behalf of the Hammerling.”
“Yes.”
“It seems your tongue is twisted with lies, Skallagrim. You see, my good eye was in Bergoss not five days ago.” Fengar stepped close to Raef, a hint of a challenge in eyes that had been dull and defeated only a moment before. “And he heard a strange tale, of an envoy sent from the Hammerling and led by none other than Hauk of Ruderk. Twenty men with gilded tongues and a banner from Finngale. And the lord of Ruderk spoke with Sverren, drank mead with Sverren, laughed and hunted with Sverren. They talked of war and bright blades, of battle, of shield walls and the men to fill them. Tell me, why would the Hammerling send two men to speak with Sverren Red-tail and Torleif of Axsellund? Why would he send you with only this cursed bastard for a companion, only to send out Hauk of Ruderk with a party of warriors at his command? Answer now with the truth.”
Raef took a deep breath and prepared to line his tongue with another lie. The movement was so quick, he almost missed it. Ten-blade’s hand flicked to his belt and then up again, slicing a piece of Raef’s hair off before he even saw the blade in the fading light. The knife came up again, the point grazing Raef’s temple and then curling through his hair. “You are too patient, Valdemar,” Ten-blade said. “Or do you not mean to make him bleed?”
With a roar, Valdemar turned on Ten-blade, a long-fingered hand wrapping around his neck, the other hand releasing his knife to twist Ten-blade’s wrist and force him to empty his hand. Throwing Ten-blade to the ground, Valdemar retrieved his knife and advanced, while Ten-blade, cursing, scrambled for his own blade.
“I will skin you, maggot-mouth,” Ten-blade said, coming to his feet and drawing a second knife from his belt. “And then I will scatter your bones so you will never reach Valhalla.”
They came together in a tussle of limbs, Valdemar perhaps the stronger of the two, but it took only a moment to know that Ten-blade was more skilled with his blades. Ten-blade was all quickness, darting, striking, his movements easy. Raef backed away as a streak of blood splattered across the snow as Ten-blade slashed at the broken man’s arm, leaving a deep gash that soaked the cloth of Valdemar’s sleeve in an instant.
Fengar did nothing. His hands were clenched at his sides, white knuckles showing, and behind him Romarr, Vakre’s uncle, watched with a gleam in his eyes. The fight ended quickly. Valdemar, his clothing shredded, his wounds many, lay spread out on the snow, the hilt of a knife protruding from his belly. He writhed for a moment, each scrape of his boots against the fresh snow a plea that went unanswered by all save the river, and then lay still. Ten-blade, unscathed but for the red marks where Valdemar had grabbed his neck, spit onto the broken man’s blank, dead face.
“Your dog needs a leash, uncle.” Vakre’s voice penetrated the silence and Ten-blade turned on him. Raef stepped between them, though he could not hope to defend himself, much less Vakre as well. The blow fell hard and fast on his temple and then Ten-blade was on Vakre, doubling him over with a savage punch to the gut that had Vakre gasping before Raef’s knees hit the ground. Lunging, Raef flung himself on Ten-blade’s legs, his movements clumsy as his skull throbbed, but his weight and force was enough to bring them both down. Without the use of his hands, Raef’s struggles were in vain and it was only a moment before Ten-blade was straddled over his chest, his arms a blur as he hit Raef again and again.
Time seemed to slow and the pain swelled in his chest and head. Blood trickled into his eye and he tasted it on his lips. In the corners of his reeling vision, he caught glimpses of feet, but all seemed still. If anyone moved to stop Ten-blade, Raef was blind to it. Before the darkness came, Raef focused on Fengar’s face. The king’s gaze was on the crimson spotted snow, a twitch in his cheek, his mouth clamped shut like a bear trap, his eyes those of a panicked animal facing fate.
He saw Odin, one-eyed and terrible, his mighty spear splintered. He saw Isolf in the Vestrhall, seated in his father’s chair. He saw Hauk of Ruderk, cloaked in shadows, sharpening a sword. And he heard the voice of a flute, high and wavering at first, then growing in strength. It was a song Gudrik had played and when Raef stirred into wakefulness, the poet’s song pulsed on in his heart.
The night was dark, the moon shadowed by clouds that slid across the pale face. Raef’s face was raw and scrapped, one eye puffy and swollen.
Something cold was pressed against his temple, and Raef flinched away, only to realize it was snow, and it was soothing, and he wanted it desperately. The snow pack sent rivulets of melted water running down his cheek. A dribble caught in the corner of his mouth and Raef let it wet his lips.
“Can you hear me?”
It was Vakre’s voice and Raef turned his head to locate him. The son of Loki was bruised and beaten, but, as Raef stirred, a pulse of flame bloomed in the palm of his hand, then spread until Vakre’s fingers were shrouded with fire. The warmth was as welcome as the icy water and Raef closed his eyes and savored the heat.
“Our death comes at dawn,” Vakre said. “Fengar means to give us to Griva’s knife.”
Raef struggled to sit and Vakre helped him lean against the shelter. His flaming hand continued to burn and Raef was glad of it for reasons he could not say. Visna was peering out of the shelter, but she ducked back in, shaking her head.
“Even if we subdued the two who watch over us, there are too many,” the Valkyrie said. “Perhaps if I were armed, I could cut down enough to get you into the trees.”
“I will burn them,” Vakre said and Raef could see the resolution in his eyes. “Or enough of them to let you get away.”
“And leave you to have your guts strung up in a tree? No.”
“Do not argue with me, Raef. If I do not, none of us will survive. If I do, there is a chance, a small one, but a chance, that one of us will make it.” The fire dimmed i
n Vakre’s hand and then went out. “It is a better death than most.” Vakre got to his feet and offered Raef a hand. “Can you stand?”
Dizziness swept over Raef as Vakre pulled him up, but it passed quickly and he began to protest again.
“I am going out there and I mean to bring upon them such a blaze that the gods themselves will feel its heat. If you hesitate, I will die in vain.” Vakre’s gaze hardened. “Do not hesitate.”
Vakre ducked out of the shelter and Raef hurried after, his hand reaching to pull Vakre back, but both were brought up short before taking another step by the approach of a tall blonde woman, her hair silver in the moonlight.
“I will watch them.” The daughter of Thor pushed past the two warriors assigned to stay with Raef, Vakre, and Visna. “Go.” The men were eager to comply, no doubt thinking of the skins of ale that awaited them. The woman raised her voice to address the remaining warriors who clustered around two small fires or stood on watch at the edge of the clearing. “All of you, the king would speak with you. I will stay with the prisoners.” The woman watched them go and then moved to confront Raef and Vakre. She looked long and hard at them before speaking. “My sister is dead?” The daughter of Thor was as tall as Raef and well-muscled. She gazed at Raef over a once-broken nose.
“Yes. What was her name?” Raef said.
“She was Tora.”
“And yours?”
The blonde woman scowled at Raef but answered. “Inge.”
“I am sorry for your sister’s death, Inge. I am sure Tora sits at the Allfather’s table.”
The scowl deepened. “I hope she does not. I hope she is freezing in the darkness of Hel.” Inge spit in the snow. “Was it you who took her life?”
Raef was about to answer with the truth, that he had only stumbled upon Tora’s frozen corpse in the deep snows of Hullbern, but Vakre spoke first.
“I did.”
Raef’s heartbeat quickened and he held his tongue, letting the son of Loki spin the lie.
