by T L Greylock
“Unless Torleif has asked for too much.” Rufnir was quiet, unsure, and Raef could not read his face in the darkness.
“It was necessary, Ruf. Axsellund has kept out of this war. Torleif must show he had reason for this, must show a great deal of foresight, and above all, must show that he burns with ambition. Asking for lands stretching to the western sea is reckless, but bold, and Fengar needs bold if he is to defeat the Hammerling. He needs to believe that Torleif will bring him victory, or Romarr will convince him not to let Torleif leave that shelter alive.”
Despite Raef’s assurances to Rufnir, it was with a restless mind that he returned to the nest with them. The men were quiet but in good cheer, carving portions off a pair of deer brought down just before Torleif’s arrival in the valley. But Raef found he did not have the stomach to eat, and instead kept a constant vigil at the nest’s overlook, staring into the dark valley and the faint light of torches that seemed to hum in the heart of it.
It was not until just before dawn that the warrior came. The valley was thick with mist and Raef, drifting somewhere on the edge of sleep, was slow to rouse himself, for the figure that took shape before him out of the swirling mist seemed no more solid than a dream. It was the man’s voice that broke through Raef’s weariness as the warrior leaned over Raef and shook his shoulder.
“Lord.”
Raef blinked and, with a groan of discomfort, pushed himself away from the wall of rock that he had slumped against in the night. “What is it?” he managed, his tongue thick in his mouth. He focused on the warrior’s face, so pale in the mist but for the dark ink that crept up his neck in the guise of a serpent. Raef recognized him now. He and Torleif had spoken in private before descending into the valley, though Raef did not know whether the man counseled for or against the plan.
“It is done. A bargain has been struck.”
Raef felt the relief rush through him like the spring flood that would come to Vannheim’s rivers. “Good. Good. Then we will begin our preparations at once.” Raef got to his feet but something in the warrior’s face halted him there on the edge between rock and air. “What is it?”
“The terms. They are not what they should be.”
“What do you mean?”
“Torleif must prove himself, must show he is worthy of the demands he has made. Only then will Fengar accept his oath.”
“Then Torleif cannot be called an oathbreaker when he turns on the would-be king.” Raef knew his words sounded hollow, knew the warrior had more to say.
“Fengar means to have the Vestrhall. And Torleif must win it.”
Raef swore. “This was Romarr of Finnmark’s notion.”
“It was the agreed upon task. Torleif was left with no choice. Fengar needs a place of safety; the Vestrhall is near. And he has seen you away from your hall, in the wilderness with only a few men, a strange thing in a time of war. He does not know what has gone on here in Vannheim, does not know of your cousin’s treachery, but he believes the Vestrhall is ripe for the taking.” The warrior of Axsellund stepped close to Raef and gripped his forearm. “The valley will be emptied today.”
Raef’s gaze roamed over the men stirring in the nest. There were not enough to be sure of victory, even with the surprise of Torleif’s deceit. He turned back to look at the serpent warrior. “Then Fengar dies today.”
TEN
The mist was a friend at Raef’s back, a silent companion as he watched the riverside camp empty. The warriors snaked into the trees in a column three shields wide, led and trailed by men on horseback. From Raef’s vantage point, there was little enough to see, but the warrior from Axsellund at his side was quick to point out that Torleif and his men were scattered throughout the host. There would be no easy way to alert and organize them when the fighting began. Fengar rode at the front, flanked by Romarr of Finnmark and Griva, the two blonde sisters just ahead of the king. The old man looked frail and birdlike, perched atop a large, heavy-hoofed horse meant for field work, but this did nothing to lessen the sharpness of his knives, Raef knew. Torleif was given a place of honor just behind the king, but the presence of Ulthor Ten-blade at his shoulder told Raef the honor was tinged with suspicion and the promise of a quick stab to the ribs should Torleif show any signs of falsehood.
“He will be killed the moment we attack.” The warrior’s snake tattoo seemed to writhe with anger as he crouched next to Raef.
“Do you have so little faith in your lord?” It was a cold answer but Raef could not afford to be swayed by emotion.
“Are you so eager to see your newly-won ally slaughtered?”
“Torleif knew the danger,” Raef said, his teeth clenched against the frustration building into a knot in his throat. “He knew this battle would come.”
“In days, yes, perhaps even weeks. You do not have the men to win this fight.”
Raef rounded on the warrior. “I have men who are willing to do what must be done, who are willing to go to the gods. That is what I have. What I do not have is time. Should I hand the Vestrhall to Fengar? Should I let a king take up residence in my hall and watch him fortify it with an army?”
“Is that no less than your cousin has done?”
Raef seized the warrior’s shoulder. “And what if your lord should have a change of heart? What if I, secure in our alliance, let Fengar take the Vestrhall, and then throw my men against the walls expecting our friends inside to unbar the gates, to find only foes on the other side?”
“Torleif is not a faithless dog,” the warrior growled.
“We fight Fengar today. Here.” Raef kept his voice quiet though he longed to unleash his anger. “You are free to keep your sword clean if that is your wish. I care not.” Raef turned away, knowing the warrior of Axsellund would do no such thing. His devotion to Torleif ran too deep. Scrambling across the rocks, Raef returned to the eagle’s nest, where his company of warriors waited in grim silence, their freshly sharpened spears and swords piercing the mist. Raef glanced up to the top of the bowl where a lone figure stood, stark against the sky. Vakre. The son of Loki raised a hand in greeting and Raef turned to the men. He put a wide smile on his face that he did not feel in his heart.
“It is time. Show me how well you climb. An arm ring for the first man to reach the top.”
With eager grins, the warriors hurried to the walls of rock that formed the back of the bowl. Some worked their way up the narrow paths riddled with empty air, others sought unconquered ground, finding finger holds and ledges as well as any goat. They took to it with a quiet determination that made Raef glad, but one man Raef pulled aside just before he began to climb.
“Not you, Ruf.” Raef patted Rufnir on the shoulder.
“I can make the climb.” Rufnir’s jaw was set but there was fear in his eyes. “I can.”
“I do not doubt you,” Raef said. Rufnir would try without complaint, he knew, but Raef would not risk his friend’s life to save his pride. A one-handed man had no place climbing a wall of rock. Even the paths would be treacherous. Raef grinned to set his old friend at ease. “I have another task for you. You will be coming with me.”
The first warriors had reached the top by the time Raef and Rufnir dropped out of the bowl and crept close to Fengar’s column, which was leaving the valley by the same route Torleif had come. Visna was already there, her sharp blue eyes unblinking as she traced the warriors through the trees, and Dvalarr watched her back. The way would take them into a high valley, thick with grasses and flowers in high summer, wide and white with snow in barren winter. And above, as high as the eagles that nested there, the Vannheim warriors would watch and track them as the wolf does the wounded deer, and ready themselves for battle. Following behind, Raef would stalk Fengar and wait for the right moment and the place where the terrain might give them the greatest advantage.
That place was a narrow gorge where the valley thinned, penned in by sheer walls of rock on both sides. Raef had described it to Vakre, sure it was their best hope, for there they
could trap Fengar’s force, closing in from behind and blocking the way forward with a wall of shields.
The thick snow made for slow progress and Raef and his companions trudged along up to their knees, keeping enough distance between them and Fengar’s rear guard to avoid being seen.
“We will be the first to close the trap from behind, Ruf,” Raef explained between breaths as he pushed through a high drift of snow. “It is vital that none escape.” It was the truth. The Vannheim men who descended to close off the front of the gorge would have an easier path. Those who were sent to join Raef and seal off the rear had a more treacherous descent, and if the attack was not perfectly timed, Raef and those with him would have to stand alone until reinforcements came. But he also said it to bolster Rufnir’s spirits, and Raef was rewarded by a grin that brightened his friend’s face.
“I will sing the steel song for them all,” Rufnir said, tugging at the Thor hammer that dangled from his neck, his shield strapped tight against his stump.
“Try to leave a few for me.”
As the gorge came into sight ahead of them, Raef did his best to narrow the gap between them and the last of Fengar’s warriors, though the lack of cover kept them from getting as close as he would like. He saw nothing of the warriors that lay in wait, nothing of Vakre, and for a moment Raef felt alone in that windswept valley, but then he glimpsed a soaring shape high in the sky, an eagle, its wings spread wide to catch the air, and he thought of Siv and the nerves vanished, supplanted by the first tremors of keen anticipation. With a nod exchanged between them, Visna broke away from Raef, Rufnir, and Dvalarr, heading to the eastern side of the valley, an arrow already knocked on the string of the borrowed bow. She would make her way to the top of the gorge opposite Vakre to make visual contact with him and signal the start of the attack, then rain down arrows until she had none left.
Dvalarr watched her go, openly admiring her long, sure strides and the wave of her golden hair where it vanished into her hood.
“Where did you find such a woman?”
There would be a time to tell Visna’s story, to reveal her to the world so her name might ring across the skies as Raef had promised, but it was not now. “Only the gods know.” It was true enough. Raef grinned at Dvalarr. “Come, Crow. Do your axes hunger for the taste of blood?”
Dvalarr loosed the pair of axes from his belt and kissed the cold steel heads in turn. “Their thirst is great, lord.” There was no grin on Dvalarr’s face, only a promise of death.
Fengar’s host had almost reached the gorge and Raef glanced up to see that Visna was nearly in position. Throwing caution away, Raef hurried forward, Dvalarr and Rufnir at his heels, every pounding step taking him closer to battle.
As the last of Fengar’s warriors filed into the narrow path between the walls of rock, Raef looked to the sky. An arrow streaked across the gorge and dark figures began to emerge from between the jagged slopes and boulders that framed the cliffs. One by one, the warriors of Vannheim trickled down to reach Raef, each man sliding into place, shield overlapping shield until they were twelve across and two deep. Ahead of them, the gorge rang with the voices of men, but not with alarm, and then at last the shout came, echoing back along the cliffs, reaching Raef as only a ragged cry. The warriors in Fengar’s column came to life. The retreat came quickly, pressed on by the sudden appearance of a shield wall blocking the forward exit, Raef knew, and he braced for impact.
The charge was hard and fast, a great press of men and sweat, but uneven and without order, and Raef’s line held with ease. Then a voice came to Raef, sharp in the cold air, shouting commands, and Raef, tucked behind his shield, knew the next push would come with greater precision and less fear. He risked a glance and saw Alvar of Kolhaugen on horseback, sword in hand, spit flying from between his teeth as he barked orders. If there were men from Axsellund among those about to charge, Raef could not say. Raef ducked as the opposing shield wall came forward, this time with even, measured steps mixed with angry insults and roars of defiance. As the walls clashed a second time, sending shudders through Raef’s bones, the hacking and the bloodletting and the dying began.
It was the Crow who broke through, his great strength beating back the man opposite him, and then, his shield forgotten, he began to unleash his axes in a fury. One, longer hafted than its sister, stroked through the chests of two men, while the shorter one hacked through the leg muscles of another. Raef, at Dvalarr’s side, pushed into the space the Crow was cleaving open in Alvar’s shield wall, battering one warrior down with his shield and finishing him with a swift chop through the skull that sent shards of bone flying. Behind Raef, his men poured into the hole they had created, driving Alvar’s men apart until they could no longer help defend each other, and Fengar’s rear guard began to crumble.
Given a moment of respite behind Dvalarr’s bulk, Raef wiped blood from his face with his shield arm. Only when he nearly gouged out his own eye with a splinter did he realize how battered his shield was. It would offer little in the way of protection, so Raef let it fall to the gore-slick snow and drew his sword. Ahead, he could see Torleif rallying the warriors of Axsellund to him and Raef felt a hope of victory swell in his chest. Calling on Dvalarr and Rufnir to follow him, Raef pushed onward, ready to meet Fengar in the thick of it.
The scream was piercing, fierce, and demanded death. Raef, having slashed through a warrior’s neck, looked up to see Griva, all bones and knife blades and wild eyes, throw himself from his saddle and onto Torleif, landing like a deadly cloak on the young lord’s shoulders. Torleif turned and twisted, trying to shake the old man off, but Griva sunk in his hold as a wolf does his teeth when he has latched onto prey. A knife flashed, someone shouted, and then blood was gushing from Torleif’s neck. Again and again Griva plunged the blade into Torleif until at last the young lord’s legs gave way and they both went down in a heap of blood and limbs.
Raef plunged forward, desperate to reach Torleif, but he was not the only one. The warrior with the serpent tattooed on his neck got there first and he flung himself on the bodies, separating Torleif from Griva, flinging the old man’s skinny frame aside with vicious force. Raef reached for Griva, his axe ready to split ribs, but he never got the chance.
The thunder came without warning, cracking across the narrow sky between the two cliffs, and the earth shook beneath Raef with such violence that he was sure Thor himself had come. The ground lurched underfoot, the snow tossing and heaving like Jörmungand in the sea, sending Raef to his knees, and there he locked eyes with Torleif and saw the fear there that only a dying man knows.
In the next instant, Raef was hurled in the air and beneath him he saw man and horse and rock and snow all collide as though in the grip of a giant, flesh mashing against stone, snow burying faces and hearts and lungs that clawed for air. And then Raef landed, his arms caught beneath him, and watched as a tide of snow peppered with rocks chased him down. His world went white as the avalanche caught him up in its icy folds. He tumbled, he knew not how far, and then all was still and dark, the only sound his heart pounding in the cocoon that would soon be his tomb.
ELEVEN
He was lucky. The avalanche had deposited him with the crook of his elbow and his forearm up around his head, creating a pocket of air. Raef mustered his saliva and let a drop of spit leave his lips. It dripped down his chin, not into his nose. He was upright. And he was still alive and conscious.
Raef took a deep breath to still his frantic heart and quiet his mind. His axe and sword were gone, flung far afield in the tumult, but a knife lingered in his belt. He could feel it press against his hip, a presence that would have been reassuring if he could have snaked his arm around and drawn the blade. It seemed a small, useless tool against the heavy press of snow that covered Raef, but it was all he had. Except that he did not have it. His left arm had created the air bubble and his right was trapped against his side. He had a small amount of wiggle room around his chest, but his limbs might as well have been severed
from his body for all the good they would do him.
Raef swallowed and tried to take small, shallow breaths to conserve what air was left to him, but the panic swelled in his chest like waves battering a rocky coastline. Raef shouted, called for Vakre, Visna, anyone who might hear, but the snow only threw his pleas back at him and Raef soon fell silent.
“Forgive me, father. I have failed you in every way.” The voice hardly seemed to be his, so hushed, so broken. But it was a voice that spoke the truth and Raef closed his eyes and hoped the cold would take him quickly.
The sound came to him from a different world, a world of wind and waves, of canvas collaring the air, of sleek longships riding the ocean. It was the sound of well-worn wood rubbing against itself, a familiar, tender sound. But then the wood became brittle sheets of snow pierced with shards of ice, and something was scraping, scraping, soft at first, and then the sound roared in Raef’s ears and he was sucked through the snow so suddenly he could not catch his breath. Raef felt air, empty air, and then he was caught, cradled in a sharp but gentle embrace, and at last he opened his eyes to see the ground give way beneath him as he rose up, up into the blue, driven skyward by a pair of smoke-colored wings.
The kin refused to leave his side. She curled around him, her wings enfolding him with a leathery warmth, but it seemed to Raef as he stroked her neck that she stayed close to him out of fear as much as for concern for him.
They were perched above the gorge, out of sight of the battle that was now buried under the snow, for she had flown high and fast to the summits above. Below, Raef could just see small, dark figures, survivors, though how many and who he could not know from that distance.
The kin blinked her sunset eyes and shivered. She seemed skinny to Raef, her bones more obvious beneath the stretched leather, her talons sharper, and he rubbed the spot between her eyes while whispering to her.
“How is it that you are here?” He rubbed harder as she leaned into him. “I would give much to understand your thoughts, to know what brought you here, to know how things stand in Alfheim.” Raef thought of Anuleif’s words. The boy had said Alfheim was in darkness and ruin. And he thought of the corpse of the giant, fallen from the sky. The boundaries between realms were weakening. “Do not be afraid. You have saved my life more than once. Let me look after you now.”
