The Song of the Ash Tree 03 - Already Comes Darkness

by T L Greylock

  “Will you not give me your name?” No doubt Isolf had taken Visna’s hand in his.

  “I am Visna and I am your fate.”

  The dock thrummed with footsteps and the voices of those who had gathered at the shore began to fade away. The light that filtered down between the boards of the deck jumped, then grew faint as the torch was removed from the prow, leaving the five men in darkness once more. But not alone. A gentle tread of feet told Raef that at least one guard remained to watch the water. He was pacing, no doubt trying to ward off the night’s chill, which meant there was no fire lit on the shore to warm hands and feet. When it came time to creep from their hiding place, whoever was out there would not be night blind.

  Raef waited, trying to measure time, but his mind would not release the image of Isolf slaughtering Finnolf Horsebreaker and Uthred of Garhold, of fire and smoke rising above the walls of the Vestrhall as Raef’s people died and he did nothing to save them, and so all sense of how long they had been waiting was lost. He raised his head from where it was nestled among the limbs of the others and straightened his shoulders and neck as best he could, though he had to hunch to avoid smacking his skull on the boards above. Raef closed his eyes and listened. The guard had slowed his walk. His movements to the end of the dock had become less frequent, but the tread of boots now came to Raef and he nudged Vakre, then fumbled in the dark for the edge of the board that marked the hatch to the ballast chamber. The boots paused at the end of the dock while Raef waited in agonizing silence for the man to turn his back once more.

  Vakre, crouched now next to Raef, tapped him on the shoulder to signal he was ready, and when the telltale shuffle began, Raef raised the hatch and climbed from the hold with deft, quiet movements. Not looking to see if Vakre was following, Raef sprang forward and launched himself off the prow just as Vakre’s knife whirled past him. The blade imbedded itself in the warrior’s back at the same moment that Raef landed and caught hold of the man’s shoulders. The warrior tried to suck in air, staggered, and Raef lowered him to the dock without a sound. Crouching next to the dead man, Raef’s gaze darted around and only when he was sure that the docks and shore were deserted did he get to his feet and signal for the others to follow. Vakre, perched on the sheer strake, a second knife in hand, grinned, his teeth catching the moonlight, and Raef felt a shiver of anticipation race across his skin, as though the wolf inked on his shoulder was stirring and preparing for battle.

  Dark and fluid like a swarm of creatures from the deep, Dvalarr, Eyvind, and Rufnir crawled out of the ballast chamber and over the side of the boat. Vakre fetched his knife from the dead man’s back, and together they paced the length of the dock until their feet crunched on the pebbly shore.

  The village lay before them in darkness. Some homes were charred and empty, remnants of the night of Isolf’s betrayal. Others were whole and smoke drifted from their roofs, but Raef heard nothing, no music, no laughter, and he wondered if his people shuttered themselves against Isolf and his men out of fear or spite.

  The Vestrhall was out of sight, up the hill and around the bend, but Raef could not resist staring up at where it lay for a moment, then with a nod at his companions, he headed west along the curving wooden wall.

  The small western gate was no more than a door carved out of the timbers that formed the wall. Beyond it, the hills rose in earnest, dwarfing the mound the Vestrhall held dominion over. The gate was little used, being too narrow to allow passage of goods and animals and, since it led only to the hills and the sea beyond, it was impractical for those who wished to travel to the rest of Vannheim.

  But for Raef it was a gateway for a boy eager to explore, to test his aim and his new bow, to roam in search of hidden places only he might know. The hills between the Vestrhall and the sea had been Raef’s first retreat. And so it had been simple to sketch a crude map of the area for the rest of the men, to show those who had not come by boat the easiest path that would skirt around the walls and take them to the thick pines that waited thirty paces from the small gate.

  Raef slowed his steps as he approached the gate and signaled for the others to halt, then he crept forward until he could see the door and the horizontal timber that barred it. Two men stood there, illuminated by a single torch in a bracket by the door. One, lean and sharp-nosed, picked at his teeth with a splinter of wood. The other was large, his neck nearly as thick as Raef’s thigh, but less alert than his companion. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his belly, his chin resting on his chest. Each man was armed with an axe and Raef guessed more than one sharp knife he could not see. Neither was known to Raef, but he had not expected his cousin to trust Vannheim warriors to guard the gates, if any even lived yet behind the walls. The men on watch would no doubt be those who had followed Isolf to Vannheim or the men from Silfravall who had made false promises of friendship to Raef.

  Raef retreated to the others and held up two fingers, then gestured to Vakre, who understood and hefted a knife once more from his belt. Creeping forward, he let the blade fly at the lean warrior, but the man shifted his stance and the knife lodged in the wall a finger’s breadth from his throat. Startled, the warrior lurched sideways, fumbling for his axe, a shout stuck on his lips, as Raef and the others attacked at full speed.

  The big man was slow to move, but his eyes widened at the sight of Dvalarr bearing down on him and he managed to get the haft of his axe free in time to take the worst of Dvalarr’s swinging blow. But his evasion knocked him squarely into the smaller warrior, who was retreating from Raef’s sword. The lean man buckled against the unexpected jolt, his neck snapping back with violent force. He pitched over into the snow and tried to crawl away from death, but Eyvind’s swinging axe caught him in the neck and he jerked once, then lay still.

  The brute was fully awake now, and grunting as he swung at Dvalarr. From behind, Vakre hacked into the man’s upper arm, nearly severing it, just as Raef slashed into his ribs, and the axe fell from the warrior’s hand. His momentum carried him forward, a growl of rage etched on his face, but he collapsed at Dvalarr’s feet. His muscle and fat kept him alive, though, and he writhed on the ground until Dvalarr swung the larger of his two axes and took off his head.

  Raef was already at the gate and lifting the timber from the iron cradle it rested in. Throwing the log away, he pulled the door open until it stuck in the drift of snow that had blown up against the wall. Raef whistled sharply and the pines came alive as the men waiting there brushed through the branches. The greeting was silent and grim as they clustered inside the wall in the light of the single torch. Eyvind and Vakre hauled the dead men out of sight into the forest and Raef looked from face to face of the warriors gathered around him.

  “Any men yet loyal to me within these walls will not stand against you. Strike down any who wield a blade and resist. Except my cousin. The man with the red hair is mine.”

  They moved up the hill as quickly as they dared, keeping clear of the main gate. It irked Raef to leave Isolf’s men at the gate alive, for they might present a threat from behind once the fight at the top of the hill broke out. But he dared not waste the lives around him in a drawn out, bloody skirmish at the gate, a skirmish that would draw men down the hill and leave Isolf out of reach. They had to concentrate their strength on the hall.

  The first person they encountered was a drunken warrior pounding on the door of a small house. He turned at the sound of so many feet, but his bleary, bloodshot eyes did not seem to comprehend what he saw, for he began to ask if anyone had a skin of ale, a question cut short by a blade drawn across his throat. Leaving the body where it fell, they moved on.

  They had reached the midway point of the climb when Raef stopped in his tracks and ducked behind a skin stretched out to dry. Lights bobbed ahead of him, revealing ten figures striding down the hill. Others around Raef followed his lead and sought hiding places, but Raef knew it was futile, for they were too many and the dark shadows too few. No doubt the warriors were headed to the gat
e to change the watch and there was little chance they would not stumble upon Raef’s men.

  A hand on Raef’s shoulder nearly earned a blade in the ribs, but it was only Rufnir.

  “Go,” Rufnir said, indicating the path ahead. “We will keep them dancing long enough for you to get up there.” Before Raef had a chance to reply, Rufnir slid away, five men trailing close behind him, and moved to the east toward the wide wagon path where the warriors were sure to see them.

  Raef moved on, sprinting now and followed by his pack of remaining warriors, his ears straining to pick out the first sounds of battle below them while his eyes looked only ahead. The shouts came quickly, surprise, questions, then an indistinguishable clamor as the steel song began.

  The steps to the hall were watched by a single man, but his eyes were focused solely on the woman straddling his lap and his hands were engaged far from his axe as Vakre rushed forward and silenced him. Blood gushed from his throat and the woman screamed and twisted away in desperation, but Vakre caught her up and held her fast with a hand over her mouth. Raef stared hard at the woman, who was a stranger to him, and put a finger to his own lips. She nodded vigorously beneath Vakre’s grasp and Raef signaled her release. She fled into the darkness and disappeared down the hill.

  Raef turned his attention to the door. Behind it, the hall was bursting with music and drunken laughter and Raef would have given an eye, like the Allfather himself, to see what went on behind the walls, to see if Visna was safe, if Isolf was enamored.

  “Will she get him out?” Dvalarr asked in Raef’s ear.

  “We do not have the time to wait anymore, Raef,” Vakre said.

  Raef hesitated, his heart pounding madly, threatening to leap out of his chest as he saw his chance at taking Isolf grow smaller. Visna was meant to draw Isolf out, to lead him away from the crowd and into Raef’s waiting arms. But the commotion down the hill was growing louder and Raef did not doubt that Rufnir was surrounded on all sides, for men from the main gate would surely have joined the fight. The six warriors would not last long.

  “Then we will go in and fetch him.”

  There was no telling how many men Isolf had with him in the hall. A good number might be too drunk to fight, but Raef had only fifteen men left at his back.

  “Follow me.”

  Raef led the men around the side of the hall, seeking a different entrance that would mask their arrival.

  The kitchen yard was empty. The well and the chicken coop and the winter garden were as Raef remembered, but the moment he stepped from the shadows, the kitchen door opened and a short, round woman stepped out, dusting flour from her hands as she went. Raef was caught out in the open and she squinted to make him out.

  “No scraps to be had here. Best try the front door.” She sounded tired and one hand went to her hip, as though it pained her. Raef didn’t move. “You hear me? Be off with you.”

  Raef smiled to himself, for she had said those words to him as a boy often enough. “Perhaps you could spare something.”

  She went still and Raef could see her frown. “Who are you?”

  Raef meant to answer, meant to give his name, but he found he could only step forward and let the lights of the kitchen wash over his face.

  Darri’s hands went to her mouth and Raef could see her sway. He stepped forward and caught her beneath the arm. She stared up at him, her pale blue eyes wracked with shock and tears.

  “You died.”

  “Is that what he says?”

  Darri wrapped her arms around Raef’s waist in a sudden embrace, the top of her head tucked under his chin. Raef smiled and kissed her hair.

  “It is good to see you, Darri.” Raef took her hands and drew back so he could look down into her joyful face. “But I must not linger. There is work to be done here.”

  Darri’s joy vanished, replaced with malice. “You mean to kill him.”

  “Yes.”

  The old woman wiped the tears from her cheeks and nodded, as firm and resolute as a warrior. “Half of them are so drunk you could dunk them in the fjord and they would hardly notice.”

  “How many are warriors?”

  Darri thought for a moment. “No fewer than thirty.”

  “Armed, all?”

  Darri snorted. “If they can tell their swords from their spoons, yes.”

  An urgent gesture from Vakre reminded Raef they were running out of time. He smiled once more at the old cook and then hurried into the kitchen, the men at his heels.

  The passageway between the kitchen and the hall was narrow and stuffy and smelled of bread. Raef opened the door to the hall a crack, shedding a beam of light onto the faces behind him, and peered out.

  Isolf sat at the high table, a horn of mead in one hand and a handful of Visna’s golden hair in the other. She was perched on his lap, her back to Raef, and Isolf was laughing, head thrown back, that mane of red hair shaking with his delight.

  The source of his mirth was in front of the high table. There, two men were stripped to the waist and smeared in remnants of food. The fats and oils from the pig carcass hanging on a spit over a low fire now gleamed on their skin and they were locked in a half-hearted, drunken hold, each trying to force the other to the ground. One turned and vomited over his shoulder, causing Isolf to laugh once more, and then the man slumped against his opponent’s chest. Together they went down in a heap and the men at the tables banged their fists and hollered for a new bout.

  To Isolf’s right, a dark-haired woman sat stiff and straight in her high-backed chair, eyes staring out into the hall, but from the hard line of her jaw and the taut muscles in her neck, Raef was sure that Aelinvor, daughter of Uhtred of Garhold and conspirator in her father’s murder, was blind to the antics of the men, all her attention focused on ignoring Isolf and Visna beside her.

  Raef removed Visna’s sword from his belt and handed it to Dvalarr.

  “See that this gets into the lady Visna’s hands.”

  The Crow gave a solemn nod and then Raef turned his attention to the rest of the men huddled in the passageway. They were all sweating, their faces gripped with the knowledge that the real fight was just ahead. Raef knew each name, each place called home. Even the men of Axsellund who had chosen to remain were no longer strangers and their faces were etched into Raef’s skull.

  “Some of us will go to Valhalla this night. Know that whatever the outcome, you have earned your place there. The gods will rejoice to see you,” Raef said, his voice nearly drowned out by the deafening noise in the hall. “May Thor bring strength to your arms and bite to your blades.”

  Without another word, Raef turned and strode into the hall. For a moment, his presence went unnoticed. But in that moment, the slaughter began.

  Isolf was the first to react as Raef plunged his sword into an unsuspecting warrior, but Visna was faster. The Valkyrie twisted and jabbed her elbow up into Isolf’s throat. Isolf roared, reaching blindly for her, and the chair toppled over backward. Visna landed on top but Isolf’s strength was great and they grappled for a moment before Isolf broke free and scrabbled away from Visna. Finding his feet, Isolf, his face red with rage and drink, drew his sword and screamed for men to gather close. Visna snarled and might have gone after him, but Raef, separated from Isolf by more than one table, shouted at her to fall back. Dvalarr reached her side and extended the dark sword to her, hilt first. The Valkyrie grasped it, spit in Isolf’s direction, and then dropped back to join Raef’s line of warriors as they began to wreak havoc in the hall while men scrambled for weapons and cover. Aelinvor, unarmed and not practiced in the ways of a shieldmaiden, withdrew to the closest wall and looked for protection from Isolf, who made no move to reach her side.

  The first man’s death had been met with angry roars, but Raef’s sword carved into unprotected flesh twice more before any resistance came his way. A pair of warriors lurched at him, one barehanded, the other thrusting with a knife. Raef ducked the first and sliced upwards into the second. His blade stuck and
was ripped from his grasp as the man fell to the floor. Raef let the sword go and drew his axe as he spun to face the first, empty-handed man again. A quick chop and a kick to the chest sent the man reeling, blood spurting from a gash in his wool shirt.

  A new opponent launched himself at Raef with a knife. Raef braced and then was swept sideways as Eyvind and a warrior plowed into him. Losing his balance, Raef went to his knees. The knife slashed down. He caught the blade on his leather forearm guard, then hacked his axe up into the man’s groin. The axe wedged into flesh and bone while the man screamed, then ripped out through his belly. A spray of guts and blood spattered across Raef’s face. He blinked and moved on as the screaming warrior fell to the floor.

  The hall was awash in blood by the time Raef reached the far wall. Behind him was a trail of savaged corpses. Isolf had retreated into a corner near the high table, surrounded by a cluster of warriors, but the rest of his men were dead, dying, or too drunk to have noticed the fight.

  “Isolf!” Raef’s voice thundered across the hall as he leapt upon the closest table. He held out his arms, both streaked with the blood of other men, his axe haft slippery with gore. “I am the wolf song.” He began to walk the length of the table, his gaze fixed on his cousin’s red hair and fearful, enraged face. Behind him, Vakre followed off his left shoulder, Dvalarr the right. “I am the serpent breath.” Each word rang off the timbers of the vaulted ceiling. When he reached the end of the table, he paused. “I am your death.”

  Isolf pushed past the warriors that huddled around him. His sword was clean, the steel still bright, but he did not return it to its scabbard. He looked up at Raef from under his thick eyebrows.

  “If your men stand down now, they will live,” Raef said.

  Isolf hesitated, then gestured to his sword, unstained by blood. “And me? If I draw no blood this night, what of me, cousin?” There was something still of his old charisma, his easy nature that had tamed Raef’s suspicions.