by T L Greylock
Raef looked to Vakre, whose face mirrored the muddle of emotions that churned in Raef’s belly. Then Vakre knelt and stroked the glossy feathers of the bird’s head.
“Your watch is done, friend,” Vakre murmured. The fire that spread from Vakre’s fingers took hold of the raven’s tail feathers first, and for a moment Raef could imagine the bird soaring once more, tail blazing, but then the flames smothered the raven’s body, burning hot and fast and reducing it to ash in a moment.
“How long do you think we have?” Raef asked as the smoke curled up and away on the air.
“Not long. The death of Odin’s ravens heralds the coming battle.” Vakre shivered, but not from cold, and Raef could see a fleeting shadow of loathing pass across his face. “My father is pleased.”
They feasted that night in remembrance of the dead. The villagers and those who served in the Vestrhall filled only half of the hall’s long tables, but when they followed Raef’s lead and raised their glasses and their voices and hailed the dead, there was strength and gladness in them, the sharp edges of sorrow softened by solidarity and mead.
Word of Raef’s return had spread outside the walls and by the time the second cask of mead was opened, men who made their homes in the first ring of hills around the Vestrhall had joined them, bringing bright faces and good cheer and freshly butchered venison. A few had brought their older children as well and in time the hall swelled with laughter. Raef drank and ate and laughed with them and felt a measure of peace.
He honored those who had made the journey from the eagle’s nest with words and riches, bestowing arm rings and jeweled belts and fine cloth from the Vestrhall’s stores. He praised Eyvind and the others from Axsellund, spoke of Torleif’s loyalty, of Visna’s courage. The Valkyrie was much admired. She had replaced the gown of gold and sunsets, ruined in the fight in the hall, with simpler, borrowed clothes, but she was still a vision, radiating strength and poise, and the crowd gasped and murmured in awe as Raef told her story.
“I am a poor skald,” Raef told Visna after.
Visna laughed. “A dog would have howled better, but it will do.”
“And I have kept my word. They know your name and will not soon forget it.”
Visna had smiled at that, her pale skin flushing with pleasure, but Raef was glad to see that she also took pleasure in Dvalarr’s humble courtesies toward her and in the laughter of the children as they chased the dogs here and there.
Eyvind came to him late in the night, when the mead had soaked into the skin of many and more than a few pairs of eyes were fighting off the shroud of sleep. The hall was filled now with the noise of quiet contentment as the warrior from Axsellund came to sit at Raef’s side in the place vacated by Dvalarr.
“Lochauld wishes to make his oath to you,” Eyvind said. He spoke of the youngest of the surviving Axsellund warriors, a blonde bearded youth who was quick with a spear.
Raef was quiet for a moment, then nodded. “I would be glad to have him.”
“Svor and Engred wish to return to Axsellund. They have families there.” Eyvind seemed about to say more but he shifted in his chair and held his tongue.
“They shall have whatever they require to make the journey,” Raef said, eyes on Eyvind, who gazed across the hall. He waited but still Eyvind hesitated. “And you? What is your wish?”
At last Eyvind looked at Raef. “I, too, will return.” Raef said nothing, sensing that Eyvind had more to say. “Whatever comes of Torleif’s death, whether the lady Oddrun has a boy child, the bravest boy since Ketill Kringa himself, or a girl, as strong and wise as Frigg in Asgard, whether this child can cling to Torleif’s legacy or a warrior rises up to claim what is ripe for the taking, I owe it to Torleif to be there. It is my home.”
“Then you will not make a claim for yourself.”
Eyvind shook his head, confirming Raef’s assumption. “Ruling is not in my nature. But more than that, I do not think I could bear to sit where he sat.”
“Then I wish you well, Eyvind. Know that you are always welcome in Vannheim, that you will always have a friend here.”
Eyvind nodded his thanks and pushed the chair back from the table. He signaled for the other three Axsellund warriors to come forward. Svor and Engred gave thanks, which Raef gave them in return, and Lochauld took a knee, eager to bind himself to his new lord. Raef was about to raise him up, to say that could wait for another time, but the great doors at the far end of the hall creaked open and a gust of cold air that made the closest fire cower brought Raef to his feet instead, a warning beating in his heart.
The figure in the doorway was tall and narrow, all sharp angles and gaunt bones even under the weight and bulk of a heavy furred cloak, but so steeped in the shadows of night still that Raef could not make out a face. The hall had gone quiet and it seemed to Raef that he could hear the smoke swirling off the flames of the torches and the fires.
“Hold, stranger,” Raef called out, breaking the silence. “Give me your name or you may come no further.”
“Ever do you greet me with harsh words, Raef Skallagrim. Are we not friends yet?” The voice thrummed into Raef’s bones, smooth and strong and tinged with amusement. It was a voice not soon forgotten.
The Far-Traveled reached up and pulled back his hood, then stepped into the light of the hall. The distance between them seemed to dissolve into nothing, for Finndar Urdson’s blue eyes were piercing and forceful and not to be ignored.
“I have learned to be wary of those who claim to be my friend,” Raef said. He nodded at Dvalarr. His boots thumping across the floor, the Crow strode to the Far-Traveled’s side and searched him with rough hands. The Far-Traveled endured this without complaint, indeed, without removing his gaze from Raef.
When Dvalarr finished, his hands coming up empty, Finndar spread his hands before him, palms up, a beseeching, questioning gesture from most men that looked far more like a demand when expressed by the half god.
“You are welcome to the Vestrhall, Finndar Urdson.”
The Far-Traveled smiled and began to pace the length of the hall, coming to a halt when he reached the high table.
“It seems I have interrupted a joyous occasion, forgive me.”
“What little joy you see has been cruelly bought with blood and sacrifice.”
The Far-Traveled’s face betrayed nothing. “Then what I have to say can wait.” His words and his eyes were at odds, the one meant to put the villagers at ease, the other, fixed on Raef, flashed with warning.
Raef walked around the table, seizing an empty cup and filling it with mead from a jug as he went. At this gesture, conversation returned to the hall as men and women whispered among themselves and Raef was glad to feel the weight of fewer eyes upon him.
Raef handed the cup to the Far-Traveled. “A drink, to revive your limbs after long travel.”
Finndar took a long swallow and handed it back to Raef. “A drink, for the king named in Vannheim.”
This caused a stir as Raef, too, took a drink, draining the cup. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then called for Ferrolf, a man skilled with the flute, to play music and take minds away from the Far-Traveled’s presence.
Three songs later, Raef could bear it no longer and he slipped from the hall, taking a passage lined with heavy tapestries and little light. After rounding a corner, Raef halted and waited until the footsteps of Finndar Urdson caught up to him. In the dim light, the Far-Traveled’s blue eyes grew grey, as a sea in a storm.
“What brings you to my home?”
The Far-Traveled studied Raef for a long moment. Behind them, the hall was a blur of noise, the distinct sounds of Ferrolf’s flute melting with voices and laughter.
“Is it true you have seen Jötunheim?”
Raef felt his nerves sharpen and push to the surface. “What have the runes told you? Surely you, above all, would know the words I will speak before I have even formed them.”
If Raef’s irritability ruffled Finndar, the half god d
id not show it. “Have I offended you?”
“I risked the lives of my friends to keep you free from the Palesword’s clutches. You gave me nothing in exchange.” Raef felt his cheeks flush with anger.
Now the Far-Traveled’s face darkened and the blue eyes narrowed. “I gave you a means to free your friends. You were satisfied at the time.”
The flush turned to shame but Raef was not prepared to give in yet. “You might have offered a warning,” Raef shouted, his voice caught in the tightly knit threads of the tapestries.
Finndar looked away, his gaze burrowing down the length of the passage. Whatever he saw there brought a heavy sigh up from deep within his chest. He looked at Raef once more. “I told you once that I speak what I am given. Sometimes, it is as though my own hand is carving the runes on Yggdrasil. They are branded into my mind, as sure and certain as the beating of my heart. This makes me glad, even if the words are grave, for there can be no doubt, no questioning. But more often I am given smaller, slighter things. A glimpse of a dawn-shrouded forest cloaked in mist, the call of a proud eagle as he rides the setting sun, the scent of honey carried on a summer wind. Tell me, Raef Skallagrim, what would you make of such things?”
“But you suspected.” The anger had fled from Raef.
“There is much I can suspect. I saw pain and sorrow in your future, Raef, but is not this so for all men and women? I would have done you no service by giving you such a feeble warning as that. But it is true, then, that you have walked the land of the giants.”
The Far-Traveled’s words summoned the vast darkness of Mogthrasir’s hall, the deafening roars of Hrodvelgr’s arena, the mind-numbing, heart-eating oblivion of the labyrinth. Reflexively, Raef stretched his hand against the solid stone wall at his back, as though somehow the cold, rough rock might anchor him. He swallowed and tried to work saliva into a mouth that had gone dry. Then Finndar Urdson blinked and Raef felt the weight of the words lift.
Raef gestured to the narrow passage around them. “Come, I can offer you better than this.”
They retreated to a grove of bare apple trees awash in moonlight and guarded by the eyes of four stone wolves. The night was still and far milder than the recent days. The brutal winds had subsided and it seemed to Raef that the stars shone with new warmth.
Raef stroked the nose of one of the prowling wolves, a habit formed in boyhood. “It was Alfheim I visited first,” he said. The wolf stared back at him with blank eyes. Raef turned to the Far-Traveled and the story of his strange journey tumbled forth, halting in places, as fast and fluid as a racing river in others. Through it all, Finndar listened with little expression and when Raef finished the account, he was quiet for a long time.
“But that is not all,” Finndar said at last. “I can see it in your eyes.”
It was more difficult to speak of Isolf’s betrayal, for that anger was fresh, and that grief and pain far more devastating than any injury he had suffered while away from Midgard. But the tale came out under Finndar’s watchful eye until there was nothing left to tell.
Clouds had drifted in so that the stone terrace and the sentinel wolves gleamed less brightly, but the snarling teeth and raised hackles were all the more fierce for their newfound shadows.
“What now, then, son of Urda?” Raef asked. “I ask again, what brings your feet to my door?”
For the first time since crossing the threshold of the Vestrhall, Finndar looked uncertain. To Raef’s eyes, he sank deeper into the shadows, or perhaps the shadows came to him.
When he spoke, though, the uncertainty vanished. “The Hammerling is coming for you.” Finndar looked to the stars, as though the Hammerling’s horde of warriors and their spears might be found marching across the sky. “He grows weary of chasing Fengar through the wild and looks for different prey.”
The news did not surprise Raef. The bonds between them had been brittle to begin with and were now severed beyond repair. “Has he stopped to think why Fengar eludes him still?”
At this, the Far-Traveled’s mouth turned up at the corners but he kept his thoughts to himself.
“So the war will come to Vannheim and the west at last. Once before you came to the Vestrhall and brought tidings of war. The lord of Vannheim did not live long after.”
It was not a slight or an insult or meant as a condemnation against the Far-Traveled, who was only a bearer of news. But Finndar’s face drained of all color and he clutched at the snout of one of the stone wolves with both hands. His breaths came short and fast and Raef saw beads of sweat form at his hairline. Only with effort did Finndar regain his composure, and even then he retained his grip on the wolf.
“Are you well?” The son of Urda seemed not to hear Raef, who took a step toward the other man and tried again. “Forgive me.”
At last Finndar stirred and the look that he gave Raef was full of fear. “The fault is not yours, nor mine. It was not your words, son of Einarr, but something else, something I have felt before and know that I will feel again. It reaches out, from darkness, through darkness, its grip both trembling and terrible, and leaves me stripped bare, bereft of all that I am, have been, and will be. And then it passes, vanishing like a moth in the night when the last flame is blown out.”
“What does it mean?”
“I have walked these lands for years beyond count. My memories are packed away in here,” Finndar tapped a finger against his skull, “all the fates of men, the knowledge, the things I have seen, all kept tidy and neat and under lock and key, as a steward might. Endless vigilance is required to maintain this tidiness, to maintain my mind. If I let it, my brain and what it holds would grow restless and wild.” Here Finndar looked at Raef. “You know that the twilight of the gods is at hand, you have not said it, but I can see it in your eyes. You know that Black Surt will soon rise and stride forth and swaddle the golden halls of Asgard in fire and blood.” Finndar turned again to the stone wolf. “Before Odin succumbs to the jaws of Fenrir, before Thor and Jörmungand destroy each other, before Yggdrasil crumbles, before, even, Hati and Skoll catch the moon and sun, and before the cock crows to summon the Einherjar to battle, my mind will break. Those tidy bundles of memories will burst free, savage and cruel, and, unfettered, unchecked, they will rampage through my mind and heart and destroy me with both the speed of a swift, violent death in battle and the agonizing creep of a slow, debilitating illness. This is my fate, Raef Skallagrim, and it will come soon enough.” Finndar was pale when he finished speaking, but calm.
“I cannot imagine,” Raef began, but Finndar cut him off.
“No. No, you cannot imagine.” The sharpness of his voice was countered by the hint of a weary, gentle smile. “Nor would I want you to.” The Far-Traveled heaved a sigh.
“Let me show you to a chamber where you might rest,” Raef said.
“Is there not more you would say, son of Einarr?” Finndar’s voice betrayed genuine surprise. “Are there not questions you would ask of me?”
“The Hammerling comes. If Odin wills it, Hauk of Ruderk, my father’s murderer, will be with him. That is all I need to know.”
SIXTEEN
Brandulf Hammerling was coming, but it was not that impending clash that occupied Raef’s mind, to his surprise, as he finished clearing the last remnants of Isolf’s presence from the Vestrhall and began the work of rebuilding the homes that had burned. His dreams were not of Hauk of Ruderk, that false friend, nor of the Hammerling and his righteous anger, but instead his sleep was filled with stranger things, things unlooked for and only half-remembered when he opened his eyes, things that turned to ash and dust and smoke when he tried to stretch his mind out to meet them. Always, he felt as though something was just beyond his reach, and his mind and body grew restless.
When he wasn’t hauling timber or laying turf on newly raised roofs, Raef slipped into the forest outside the walls. He carried no weapon but his axe, for he was in no mood to hunt, and he found himself walking the hills, from the high, bare saddles to the deep, h
idden valleys. Some days he traveled far afield, striding over snow-covered ground without rest. Other days he lingered, once by a frozen pool that would surge with snow melt in the spring, once at the shore where he tasted the salt sea in the air, and many times he did nothing but sit within a ring of old, weather-beaten stones whose carvings were too worn to make out, but always he returned with the cover of darkness and always Vakre watched for him from the stone steps of the Vestrhall as Raef made his way up the slope. The son of Loki asked no questions and Raef offered no answers, but it was the Far-Traveled’s eyes that Raef felt on him as the mead and meal were shared each night.
The Far-Traveled stayed for three days and three nights. At first the people of the Vestrhall were wary of him and whispered to each other when he passed by, but by the third night he was telling tales by firelight to an enthralled audience. When the hour grew late and the hall had emptied save for a few men debating the merits of seal skin rope, Finndar returned to the high table.
“It is time I left Vannheim,” Finndar said. He refilled his cup with golden mead and sat in the empty chair to Raef’s left.
Raef nodded, for the Far-Traveled’s restlessness was not unexpected. “The men from Axsellund are prepared to make their journey home. They leave in the morning and I am sure would welcome your company.”
“The dawn is too far off,” Finndar said. “Though I would be glad of friends upon the road, I must be satisfied with only the stars.” And yet the son of Urda hesitated and stared into his cup of mead.
“You were right,” Raef said. “There is a question I would ask you.”
Finndar’s smile was that of a young man, quick and easy, and he gestured for Raef to ask.
“We spoke of what lies ahead. This grim knowledge has settled in my heart, but sometimes I wonder if I should keep it there.” Raef waved out at the hall. “My people, they live as they always have. They hunt, they fish, they farm, they build. And they see many tomorrows yet ahead of them. Do I owe them the truth, or is it right to keep silent?”
