by T L Greylock
Inge nodded at Vakre. “Then I thank you.” Her hand went to the knife at her belt and Raef tensed. “What would you have in return?”
Vakre held out his bound wrists. “Release us.”
Inge stepped forward and sawed through Vakre’s ropes with ease, then turned and began to work on Raef’s.
“Fengar will kill you when he discovers what you have done.”
“If he discovers it, yes, he will. Or he will have that dried up cock do it. But he will be right to do so, for I am dishonoring and disobeying him.”
“Then why do it?”
Inge’s pale grey eyes bore into Raef’s. “Because I will go to my death knowing I have outlived one sister, perhaps even two if the king sends Gudra after me, and that is worth the price.” Raef’s ropes fell away and Inge, jaw clamped shut now, freed Visna, then led them to the edge of the river camp, far from the largest fire where the men gathered.
“Wait here. I will bring your weapons.”
She disappeared, leaving them to wait in tense silence. Raef had nearly decided to abandon their weapons and slink back to the eagle’s nest unarmed when Inge returned. Raef and Vakre armed themselves quickly while Visna stared at her sword for a moment before taking it in her hands.
With nothing more than a nod exchanged between them, they left Inge and slipped away, Raef hunched over from the pain of his injuries. They took precautions, weaving a course that led away from the eagle’s nest before doubling back and beginning the steep climb, but Raef did not think Inge would follow and they met only a pair of startled foxes as they returned to the nest.
Raef crested the summit and his heart swelled with gladness, for no longer was the nest shelter to Tuli alone. For a moment, he went unnoticed, and then the bowl came alive as his presence was first challenged and then welcomed with eager voices as more than twenty warriors of Vannheim recognized and greeted him. But one face caused Raef’s gut to clench and the voices grew quiet as the men saw what drew their lord’s gaze.
Dvalarr the Crow has shorn his beard. The hulking warrior stood before Raef, bereft of the great symbol of his long life and success in battle. Where once his head and been shaven only on the left, now his entire skull was hairless, the left dark with the ink of three crows, the right pale and free from scars. But there was no mistaking the Crow’s heavy brow and deep, dark eyes that bore into Raef.
“Crow,” Raef said, trying to mask the apprehension that fluttered in his chest. For Dvalarr the Crow had been the voice that had proclaimed Raef king, a voice urged to speak by Isolf, Raef was sure.
“King,” Dvalarr said, his voice strong and solemn.
“Am I?”
The Crow faltered, searching for words. “I know what you must think.”
“And what is that?”
“That I am a snake, a spy. That I ate from your cousin’s hand like a worthless dog, that I saw my own rise in your defeat.” With every word, the Crow seemed to grow more certain. “That I made an oath and broke it, that I spoke words your cousin whispered in my ear, that I named you king and sought your death.”
“Are you guilty of these things?”
Dvalarr was quiet for a moment. “My father once told me that the naming of a king is a thing most sacred, that the gods would strike down a man who spoke those words with a false heart. He told me of Olfin of the seal sons and Aedric Stonefoot and I listened with wide eyes. It is a story for children and I am a man long grown, a warrior who has sent many to Valhalla. But I never forgot my father’s words. You are my king, and may Odin deny me Valhalla if he thinks me a traitor.”
Raef let the Crow have his say and was quiet for a long moment. “Why have you shorn your hair and beard, Crow?”
“To show you that I come to you with nothing.” Dvalarr tossed something small and gleaming into the air. Raef caught it and held open his palm to the light of the fire. The thick ring of gold was plain and battered in more than one place.
“You wore this to tie your beard,” Raef said. Dvalarr nodded. “Why give this to me?”
“To show you that I come to you with nothing,” the Crow repeated. He stepped closer to Raef. “All men knew the Crow, he who scorned the wearing of arm rings, he who did not need a ring-giver, a lord, to make a name that the gods might hear. He was a proud man.”
“Are you not still a proud man, Dvalarr?”
The Crow knelt. “I could be, if I might serve you.”
Raef scanned the gathered warriors and found one clutching a skin. Raef nodded at the man and held out a hand. The warrior threw it to Raef, who uncapped it. The mead smelled rich and strong and made saliva fill Raef’s mouth. The weakness in his legs swelled and blood pounded in his temples, but he went to stand before Dvalarr and placed a hand on the Crow’s shoulder.
“Then be a proud man and share a drink with me, Crow.” Raef took a swig from the skin as he pulled Dvalarr to his feet, then handed the mead to the larger man. The warriors cheered as Dvalarr brought the skin to his lips, but quieted at a gesture from Raef.
“We are not alone here. Fengar of Solheim is in the valley below,” Raef said. The men began to talk all at once and then went silent when Raef raised his hand. “I have been his prisoner these past three nights. I do not believe he will find us here, but we must take precautions. I will allow a fire in the largest cave,” Raef said, gesturing to the back of the bowl, “but we must come and go with care. We will use the goat paths to climb into the mountains to find game and slip down to the fjord at night to fish. And we will wait for more men to gather here and then we will descend upon Fengar as the white owl does a mouse in the night, with deadly silence and ready talons, for I will tolerate no foe on Vannheim soil.”
The men were glad, their hearts full of promise and ale, but Raef’s vision swam and it was difficult to conceal his exhaustion and the extent of his injuries as he, gathering warm thick reindeer skins, limped to the cave where a pair of men were already at work building a fire. Raef sank to the ground and leaned back against the stones, but the sight of the growing flames reminded him of Anuleif, He Who Burned. The boy was nowhere to be seen. Raef called for Tuli, who had remained in the nest when Raef ventured into the valley.
“The boy, Anuleif. What happened to him?”
Tuli’s cheerful face turned sour and grim. “He went in search of you. I tried to stop him, lord, but he was quick.”
“Do not burden yourself with him, Tuli. The boy found me and I sent him off again. I meant for him to return here.”
“He did. But only to say that he could no longer remain. He was gone before morning.”
Raef nodded, keeping his face calm, though his mind was a sea of turmoil. Like a fisherman on the wide waves, the boy had cast a line into the depths of Raef’s heart and hooked something there, something that would not be tugged free. But now the fisherman had returned to shore, leaving the fish to wriggle, unaided, on the hook.
Tuli turned to go but Raef called him back. “What were the boy’s exact words?”
Tuli frowned and Raef could see him pulling the words from memory as though each were a fragment of glass. “He said he could no longer remain in the land of the rising sun.”
“The rising sun? Vannheim stretches to the west, not the east,” Raef said. Tuli shrugged and left the cave, leaving Raef alone to fall into a heavy, dreamless sleep.
NINE
For nineteen days, Raef bought back his strength with hot stews of venison and rabbit, with charred, briny fish, with rest and careful ministrations to the arrow wound and the bruises lacing across his torso, and in those nineteen days, the number of men in the eagle’s nest swelled. The warriors trickled in, sometimes in pairs, sometimes alone, and once half a shield wall of eighteen men came at sunset, and each brought axe or spear or sharp sword.
Of the men in the valley, Raef saw little. Fengar seemed content to linger there, fishing in the river and foraging in the forest. No more men joined him there, Raef’s scouts said, but whether Fengar waited for more w
arriors or simply was too uncertain to venture beyond the valley, the men could not say. There was no sign of pursuit from the Hammerling, or reinforcement from Stefnir of Gornhald, and Raef yearned for news of both men.
On the twentieth day, a wedge of shields descended from the hills just east of the nest. They came in the fading light, the last rays of sunlight glinting off the tips of their spears, their painted shields burnished over with golden orange, and they did not come quietly. Drawn to the edge of the bowl, Raef frowned, trying to make out if the warriors were friend or foe, and he knew those in the valley would see them, too. Gathering his weapons, Raef took Vakre and a few men from the nest and approached the horde, which had lumbered to a halt near the tree line. Keeping in the shadows of shrubs and boulders, Raef stayed out of sight until he drew near enough to see one man separate from the pack and move west along the slope, toward where Raef hid and toward the eagle’s nest. His stride was purposeful, as though he knew what lay ahead, and Raef tensed and readied his grip on his axe.
As the warrior came closer, his curly, coal-black hair grew distinct, as did the stump where his left arm ended. Raef grinned to himself and stepped out from his hiding place.
“Ruf.”
Rufnir’s face broke into a wide smile and he loped the last few strides until he reached Raef. They clasped arms.
“Have you brought me Torleif?”
“With forty warriors at his back,” Rufnir said, the smile growing wider. “More will follow.”
Raef clapped his friend on the shoulder, but then let the pleasure drop from his face. He gestured to the valley, which was already in shadow.
“So has Fengar.”
Rufnir grimaced.
“The lord of Finnmark is with him, as is Alvar of Kolhaugen. They are perhaps seventy in number and they will have seen you just as I did.” Rufnir began to apologize but Raef brushed it away. “Bring me to Torleif.”
The lord of Axsellund was young, younger than Raef, and he had an open, honest face shadowed with a trim blonde beard. He did not look like a man who had been lord of Axsellund since the age of thirteen when his father had died of a fever. He did not look like a man who could command warriors in battle. But his warriors were a hard, grim-faced lot, whose backs were stiff with pride, and that pride was for their young lord as much as for themselves, Raef saw as he approached. The eyes of the Axsellund warriors were not hostile toward Raef, but neither were they friendly.
“Torleif, you are welcome to Vannheim.”
Torleif gave a slight nod. “Skallagrim.”
Raef did not have time for further pleasantries. His mind was on the eyes that watched from the valley floor.
“Are you prepared to honor the promise you made to me?”
Torleif’s gaze showed a hint of irritation before smoothing over. “I would not be here if that were not my intent.”
“Then we have work to do.” Raef pointed down into the valley. “Fengar is down there. I mean to slaughter him and all who follow him, but first we must buy ourselves some time. Your arrival will not have gone unnoticed and I cannot take you further and risk discovery. Are you prepared to do as I ask?”
“I will not send my men down into a death trap, lord, if that is what you mean to ask.”
“I am not wasteful,” Raef said, staring hard into Torleif’s eyes and ignoring the bristling warriors around him. “We do not have the time to spar. You sent your chosen king a sprig of cedar, Torleif. Did that mean nothing?”
“It meant everything.” Torleif’s voice was low but sharp and at last Raef saw the backbone, the strength, which had allowed him to rule from such a young age. “I do not make promises lightly.” They locked eyes for a moment longer.
“Then let us be friends. But first we must trim the wolf’s claws. Fengar will be wary at the sight of your men. We must put him at ease. Do as I ask, and your men will share the shield wall with mine when I win back Vannheim.”
The idea had been forming in Raef’s head from the moment he spotted Rufnir, but even then it was a shadowy, unfinished thought and the risk was high. If they failed, Raef would lose the Axsellund warriors, who would be outnumbered by Fengar’s, and chance discovery of the nest. Everything he had built to challenge Isolf could be destroyed before the sun rose again.
But there was no time to question the directions he gave Torleif and it was only moments before he was watching the lord of Axsellund lead his host down into the valley, carrying his hopes on their shields. Raef waited the span of forty heart-shuddering breaths, then followed with Vakre and Rufnir at his back.
The shield walls at the river’s edge were still compact and bristling with spears, but by the time Raef crept close enough on the boulder-strewn river to hear, the initial flare of hostilities had been subdued and Fengar and Torleif were speaking to each other. Vakre crouched next to Raef, a silent, watchful shadow, while Rufnir waited out of sight behind them.
“How is it that you have found me here, Torleif?” Fengar stood several paces from the lord of Axsellund and it seemed to Raef that he leaned away from the confrontation, as though he expected the younger man to pounce.
“It was Valdemar, lord,” Torleif said and Raef felt his tongue go dry in his mouth as Torleif spoke the first lie. “He came to me, calling your name, urging me to join your cause. It was my duty, he said, to the king who was named.”
Raef had insisted on that last part, for Valdemar would not have extolled Fengar’s virtues or strength, or even promised vast rewards. That was not the broken man’s way.
“He told me where I might find you, where I might make my oath,” Torleif went on. He gestured to the men who stood with overlapping shields behind him. “These are but a taste of the warriors I can bring you, Fengar.” The young lord’s face was bright in the torchlight and Raef searched it for a sign of hesitation, but Torleif did not falter and he looked the king in the eye without blinking. “Axsellund is home to many more brothers and sons eager to stand in the shield wall and prove their valor.”
“So you will join the fight against the Hammerling and bring peace back to these lands?” Fengar’s back was to Raef, but the king’s eagerness could be heard in his voice.
“What will you give me in return?”
Romarr, to Fengar’s right, broke in. “That depends upon you. He will reward those who serve him well.” Romarr twisted a ring on his left hand. Even in the faint light and from a distance Raef could see how large the jewel was. He wondered what corpse it had come from.
“Serve?” Torleif cocked his head to stare at Romarr and Raef held his breath. “Am I a common beast to do his bidding?”
“We are all beasts when it comes to war.”
“Tell me, that ring there, was that one such reward?” Torleif asked.
Romarr seemed unsure of the younger man’s intent. “The king has been generous to me. This is but a taste of what he has given me.”
“Arm rings? Torcs? A jeweled necklace for my wife, perhaps?”
Romarr’s hesitation was slight, but he answered. “All these and more.”
“Ah, but you see it is the more that I want, not a ring, or a pretty gem to put in my wife’s hair.” Torleif’s voice had lost its curious, youthful lilt. “Would he give me land that I might spread to the sea and ships to sail upon the glistening waves? Would he make me a lord superior to all others? Would I be master of the western lands?”
Raef’s heart pounded in his chest as Torleif made his demands, wondering if the young lord pushed too far. The wrong words, the wrong look, would start a battle. He would have given much to see Fengar’s face in that moment.
Romarr threw back his head and laughed. “Is your brain addled? Have the vaettir run away with your senses, boy? What you ask is impossible.”
“Then Axsellund will not stand with you or your king.”
“That is all?” Romarr was all blistering anger now. “You think the war will pass you by? That Axsellund will remain unscathed simply because you wish it to be so
? To deny the true king is to guarantee your destruction.”
Torleif smiled a little. “Is that so? Have the Norns whispered in your ear? Have you seen the carvings on Yggdrasil?”
Romarr flushed in the firelight. “You will regret your choice, boy. I will cut your wife’s throat myself, but not before I have her.”
“Enough.” Fengar spoke at last and laid a hand on Romarr’s arm. “Young Torleif has come to us with good will. We should not banish him simply for his brash words.” The king turned to Torleif. “You ask much, Torleif, son of Audvin, and it would be within my right to claim your life. But I am not so rash as to throw away a chance at alliance because you have insulted me.” Fengar’s right hand jerked as though he were about to offer it in friendship and then thought better of it. Instead he indicated the shelter behind him. “Come, we have much to discuss.”
Raef watched Torleif disappear with Fengar behind the skins and swallowed hard to loosen the clenched muscles of his chest. Romarr followed, as did Alvar of Kolhaugen, leaving the shield walls to face each other in silence. Fengar’s men began to disperse, peeling away from the wall one by one until only twenty or so men remained to watch the newcomers, but Torleif’s kept a good formation that Raef was glad to see. It would not do to have the Axsellund warriors drop their guard.
Raef signaled to Vakre and they slipped back along the river, meeting up with Rufnir, and then into the forest.
“It is done.” Raef breathed the words out in a puff of white vapor, both relieved that the first part of the scheme was done and knotted with tension over what was to come.
“We should have stayed. Kept watch.” Vakre seemed restless and Raef could guess why.
“Torleif’s ruse will stand or fall with or without us hanging on their every word. He is on his own. Yes,” Raef continued as Vakre began to protest, “your uncle will push back. He will not be eager to let Fengar accept Axsellund, not after the demands Torleif has made. But Fengar is desperate. We must hope that desperation bolsters his will.”
