by T L Greylock
“He is,” Raef paused, “grim.”
“Yes.
“And them?” Raef gestured to the warriors. “Are they under oaths of silence? Does he command their very breath?”
“They understand where their meat and mead come from. They understand what keeps them alive. Earn a place among them and you will not want for anything. These men do not come to him as the most skilled, strongest warriors. But they learn discipline and control and, right now, they are at work.”
They had reached the lake and Raef looked back, taking in the warriors, perhaps fifty in number, under the expanse of the star-filled sky. “Was it so with you? You told me Ailmaer took you in.”
“I was treated as any new warrior would be.” Siv grinned. “I learned how to stand still until I was commanded otherwise, even if my nose itched.”
Raef laughed and pulled her close. “I am glad you did not lose your cheerful heart to them.” He drew her long, red-gold braid over her shoulder and ran a finger down the plaits. “Now, tell me, how is it that you live?” His heart caught in his chest as he spoke the words, so sharp was the joy of holding her, of seeing her breath mingle with his in the cold air.
Siv was quiet for a moment and Raef could see her memories of that night flare to life in her eyes. “I watched you. I saw the betrayal on Isolf’s face. The gate was barred and guarded on the inside. When the fires began, the safest place for me was the walls, so I stayed for as long as I dared. But when one of Isolf’s men spotted me, I fled, taking refuge in the forge, for I could find none of your warriors and no way to resist on my own. When everything grew quiet, I emerged. It was not yet dawn. I crept amid the still-burning buildings. There were bodies strewn here and there. Warriors, women, children. From atop the wall, I could see death, and standing there hand in hand with death was Isolf and Tulkis Greyshield and the men of Silfravall, and I knew the Vestrhall had fallen.” She reached up and touched Raef’s cheekbone. “I knew my best chance at escape was through the small gate. Isolf had posted two men there. They died with my arrows in their throats.”
Raef planted a kiss on her forehead. “As did Eira.”
“Was that her? I could not be sure.”
“How did you find Ailmaer Wind-footed and his company?”
“By the will of the gods, I think.” Siv drew back and they began to walk once more. “I believed you dead and I had only my vow to find my sister driving me onward, so I began my search once more. I reached the border between Vannheim and Finngale when a familiar sound caught my ear.”
“The mountain sparrow?”
Siv smiled. “I was glad enough to see a friendly face, and Ailmaer did not ask questions I did not wish to answer.”
“What was Ailmaer Wind-footed doing at the border between Vannheim and Finngale?”
Siv shrugged. “He does not say. We raided no one. I think he was looking for something.” Siv turned her head to look at Raef. “Word came that you lived, that Uhtred of Garhold had won back the Vestrhall for you, that you were dead but your spirit called forth a storm of eagles to destroy Isolf. I persuaded Ailmaer to go south, though I think he was of the same mind. We stumbled across the Hammerling two days ago. It was only by chance that we were watching his camp when you rode out of the darkness.”
“And your sister?”
Siv shook her head. “As elusive as ever.” She squeezed his hand. “And now you owe me your tale.”
And so Raef told her of the eagle’s nest, of Visna, of the strange boy Anuleif, of giants falling from the sky, of Rufnir and the first loyal few, of Torleif and the doomed alliance. He spoke of the battle in the gorge, of the avalanche and Vakre’s increasing burden, of the smoke-colored kin’s death, of the return to the Vestrhall, and, last of all, of the eagle he had spread across Isolf’s back.
Siv was quiet for a long time and they walked in silence to the far side of the small lake.
“Did you mean to die at the Hammerling’s hand?”
“I meant to kill Hauk of Ruderk if I could, and then, yes, die if the Hammerling required it. My people have suffered enough. I had thought to spare them battle with the Hammerling.”
Siv’s face was sorrowful. “There is little hope of that now. And given a second chance I would have shot Hauk instead of Eira, though she drew my arrow because she was armed and he was not. But I am not sorry for taking you from the Hammerling’s clutches.” She wrapped her arms around Raef. “I am not sorry that I am standing here with you.”
Raef leaned in. “Nor am I,” he said, his voice as quiet as the gentle wind that blew across the open ground. They stayed still for a long moment, the stars turning slowly overhead, and though Raef’s cheeks grew numb from the cold and his toes were frozen, he did not wish to move.
“Uhtred is dead,” he said at last. “And Finnolf. Yorkell. Little Tolla. Many others.”
Sorrow filled Siv’s eyes. “And what of Uhtred’s daughter? Did Isolf spare her?”
With a heavy heart, Raef told Siv of Aelinvor’s part in her father’s death and the end she had made for herself. When he finished, they returned to the shadow of the mountain and the two huts. A handful of Ailmaer’s warriors remained on their feet, as vigilant as the stars above, though the rest had been released to seek sleep. Raef and Siv took to the chilled, dirt floor of one of the huts with a pair of thick reindeer furs and slept curled against each other for the last hours before dawn.
EIGHTEEN
“Will you fight?”
The Vestrhall was in sight, the walls stark against the snow, the hall golden in the bright morning. The shelters of Vannheim’s warriors had been cleared away, leaving only a few smoking remnants of night fires, and the walls were lined with men wielding shields and spears. All eyes were looking west in expectation of the Hammerling’s arrival and Raef and the party of warriors on the hill to the north had not been spotted.
Ailmaer Wind-footed surveyed the Vestrhall and Raef could see the experienced warrior calculating the lay of the land, the strength of the walls, the number of spears and blades that might be brought to battle.
“It seems to me you and yours will be outnumbered.” The mercenary cast his heavy gaze on Raef, who knew better than to look away.
“Yes. But your fifty swords would change things.”
“The Hammerling would still have the advantage.”
“Is your reputation falsely earned? I have always heard that the Wind-footed warrior has won every battle.” Raef goaded the man with good humor.
“Not every battle.” Ailmaer did not share Raef’s mood, but neither did he take offense. “Do you know that the first time I was called that it was in jest, an insult, after I had fled from the field of battle?”
Raef frowned. “Then why take the name as your own?”
“A wiser man than I had a sense of such things. He said a man needs a name, something to fling to the wolves in lean times, something wild that lives on air alone, something like a mountain stream that rushes downhill and becomes the wide, coursing river. He said it sounded good,” Ailmaer said with the slightest hint of a grin, “and I heeded his counsel.”
“What would this wise man counsel now?”
Ailmaer’s jaw and mouth hardened, his lips tightening as he looked once more at the Vestrhall.
“He would say I would be better served by turning east and siding with the Hammerling. Or, even better, taking my men far from here.”
It still was not an answer and Raef pressed him. “I can offer you gold, riches. Vannheim is wealthy.”
Ailmaer’s stare turned to Raef again. “What if I did not ask for riches?”
“What price, then?”
“Land.”
“I cannot make you lord of Finngale even if the Hammerling is defeated.”
Now Ailmaer laughed, a coarse sound as solid and unflinching as the man. “Lord? I have names enough, Skallagrim. I care not to rule over a hall. Nor do I seek a vast tract of land to farm and breed horses and sons on. No, I speak only of a single hil
l that looks out over the sea.”
“Any hill?”
“I am partial to one that sits on your northern coast.”
“Why?”
Ailmaer’s face remained blank. “The view is pleasing to me.”
“I think there is much you do not say.”
“Do you want the fifty swords I can give you?”
Raef grimaced, his mind turning as he tried to grasp Ailmaer’s motives. “Yes.”
“Then we are agreed.”
Raef’s hesitation was no more than a heartbeat. “We are.”
As one the warriors moved down the hill, navigating the descent with ease, and they thundered across the open ground to the Vestrhall’s gate, Raef at the head, his horse eagerly matching strides with Ailmaer’s larger mount.
Shouts from the watchtower heralded their arrival and the gate swung open to admit them. There to greet them was Vakre, rushing down the wooden ladder that led to the tower, and Dvalarr the Crow. The Crow’s face showed only delight at seeing additional shields to fill their wall; Vakre’s was awash with relief. But neither Raef nor Vakre could speak of what had passed in the night, for others were too close, too eager to speak to their lord and hail him for bringing reinforcements. But Vakre grasped Raef’s forearm, his grip firm and glad, and then wrapped Siv in a joyful embrace and Raef was pleased to see the son of Loki smile and forget his burdens, even for just that moment.
“The Hammerling has not come with the sun,” Dvalarr said, looking to Raef for guidance.
Raef glanced at Siv. “Perhaps Brandulf has not had a restful night.” Siv bit back a grin and Raef forced himself to give Dvalarr his full attention. “He will come, Crow, and we must be ready.”
“Everything is prepared, as you commanded, lord,” the Crow said.
Raef nodded. “Then the rest is in the hands of the gods.”
Dvalarr and several other warriors touched the Thor hammers they wore around their necks and then the Crow was barking orders and they rushed off to do as he said. Dvalarr and Ailmaer Wind-footed put their heads together and Raef watched the two hardened warriors walk off, discussing the role Ailmaer’s shields would play.
Raef was famished. Taking Siv’s hand, he led her to the Vestrhall’s kitchens. The serving men and women and most of the villagers who would not fight were already sequestered in the hall, a place of safety should the Hammerling break through the gates, so Raef and Siv helped themselves to bread baked at dawn, soft, smooth cheese, eggs boiled until the yolks were still creamy and then put out to chill in the snow, a warm, brown broth that had been left to bubble over the hearth, and thick slices of reindeer meat, dried and salted.
When they had eaten their fill, Raef and Siv joined Vakre at the walls, their gazes fixed on the eastern hills and the day grew from youth to middle age as the sun slid across the sky, and still the Hammerling did not show his face. The narrow stretch of land that separated the Vestrhall from the eastern hills remained empty, but if Raef closed his eyes he caught a glimpse of its fate, corpse-strewn, the pure white snow soiled with blood and urine, the crows descending to feast on the dead. Behind him, the village was still, the market empty. The warriors who waited atop and behind the walls spoke in hushed voices if they spoke at all. It seemed to Raef that they all stood upon a precipice, waiting, waiting for a fall that was inevitable with only the outcome yet to be discovered.
Only when the shadows had lengthened and twilight threatened to spill forth and cloak them all did the Hammerling’s spears and shields darken the edge of the trees opposite Raef. And then the strip of open land vanished beneath the marching feet of the Hammerling’s warriors. On and on they came, in greater number than Raef had feared.
His own men flocked to the walls, bows at the ready, arrows nocked. Some men touched the hammers at their throats, others placed steady, worn hands on the solid oak barrels that stood next to them on the wall walk, their lids cast aside to reveal a glossy, dark liquid that trembled at the slightest touch, sending shivers of rippled light playing across the surface. Some men knelt on the wall walk, oblivious to the army a bow shot away, though Raef was sure they yearned to peek over the walls. Instead, they were resolute, shoulders hunched, hands cupped to shield tiny flames, their sole purpose to keep the fires alive when the chaos started.
The Hammerling rode at the front, head held high, flanked by his son Asmund and Eirik of Kolhaugen. He raised his fist and the horde of men behind him ceased to swarm onward. Wind curled inland from the fjord, bringing the smell of fish and seaweed to Raef’s nostrils. It swept across the walls, tugging at the pair of green and gold banners that rose above the gate. The thick fabric snapped in the wind, a harsh sound carried to Raef on swift currents. The taut bowstrings to Raef’s left and right seemed to cry out for release while the timbers of the stout walls creaked, the ancient wood protesting the silence, the waiting. Dvalarr looked to Raef with a question in his eyes, but Raef shook his head.
“Skallagrim.” The Hammerling’s voice rang out and Raef was sure he felt the heartbeats of those on the wall quicken. “Has it come to this, then? Will your people name me king or will they die?”
Next to Raef, Dvalarr sucked in a great breath of air and Raef knew what the Crow would shout, knew it would seal the fates of many, knew he might stop it and yet he did nothing.
“Vannheim has a king, one of our choosing.” The Crow’s voice was thick with pride and defiance. “We will not kneel to another.”
A pause, one the swirling wind consumed. “At last I see the depth of your treachery, Skallagrim,” the Hammerling called. “At last I see why you fled from the burning lake. You sought to quench your own burning ambition.”
No, Raef might have said. He might have said that his only ambition was to see justice brought to his father’s killers. He might have said that the only seat he wanted was his father’s wooden chair in the Vestrhall, or even a rowing bench on a ship sailing west. He might have said much. Whether by the will of Odin or the will of something that dwelt within himself, Raef swallowed all the words that lingered in his throat. He could feel his blood coursing through his veins, feel each breath he took surge into his lungs, feel his heart beat with the anticipation of battle. His sword and axe sang to him, whispering of death and bloodshed, and it seemed to him their voices were joined by those of his ancestors, those who had not knelt to any king.
“I will ask once more. Do we fight or do we bury the axe between us?” the Hammerling called.
“We fight.”
The roar that rose up from the warriors atop the wall was echoed by the voices of the Hammerling’s horde below. Spears clashed against shields, naked steel slid from scabbards, and the snow writhed with the long, unnatural shadows of the warriors spread before the walls. Raef looked to Dvalarr and gave him a nod. The Crow bellowed an order that was carried down the wall by other voices, and in response the archers bent down to hold their pitch-smeared arrows to the sheltered flames.
The flaming arrows streaked through the darkening sky and for a moment there was silence as all eyes tracked them. As they fell, the Hammerling’s men formed hasty shield walls and many arrows thudded uselessly into the snow, their flames snuffed out in an instant. But others pierced flesh, their steel heads burying into the unprotected chests and legs of those warriors who had been too slow to seek cover. And here and there small fires bloomed amid the clusters of men as the arrows sprouted on the painted shields. The archers on the walls fired at will, their keen eyes seeking those who scrambled yet for safety, or gaps between carelessly positioned shields, but it was only a moment before the Hammerling’s army was safely ensconced behind their shields and every arrow that flew was an arrow wasted.
“Hold,” Dvalarr called. He turned to Raef. “To the gate?”
“Yes.” Raef had hoped to maintain their position of strength and safety behind the walls for as long as possible while whittling away at the Hammerling’s men, but the Crow was right. Better to meet them now than wait until the Hammerl
ing had a ram at the gates and they were penned in with few options. The inevitable clash of shield on shield was at hand.
Leaving a handful of archers on the wall to pick off strays, Raef descended to the gate where the bulk of his warriors waited. They filled the small market and the narrow passages between houses, their spears held in tight grasps, gazes flickering from face to face as each warrior fought off nervous fear.
Raef looked at them, trying to gauge the strength of their minds and the steadfastness of their hearts, and was pleased to see the fear in their eyes tempered by resolve.
“Once before we lost the Vestrhall to invaders,” Raef said, his voice ringing out as the first stars unveiled themselves in the sky. “Never again.” A shout of defiance swelled among the warriors and the ground trembled with the thundering rhythm of spears battered against the earth. “Fight for the man who stands at your side and let the bastards outside these gates feel the fire of Vannheim’s wrath. He who falls this night will go to the gods.” The screams were deafening, a sound born from the union of fear and bloodlust. Raef turned to the gate, feeling the press of men behind him, the shouts of the captains filling his ears. And then the heavy timbers were lifted and the gates swung open and the screaming warriors rushed past Raef, swarming through the gate.
A hand on Raef’s arm pulled him up and then Siv’s arms were around his neck, her mouth pressed hard against his in a fierce kiss that sent shivers flooding across Raef’s skin. When he opened his eyes, her green ones were staring at him, their depths pulling him in so far that for a moment he forgot about the warriors preparing to die, forgot about the Hammerling, forgot, even, about Hauk of Ruderk, who still lived.
Without a word between them, they joined the crush of warriors and passed through the gate, filling their place at the center of the growing shield wall. Raef pushed to the front until he stood shoulder to shoulder with Vakre and Dvalarr, their shields overlapping, and Siv tucked herself behind him, spear and shield in hand, sword at her belt.
The shield wall stretched south to the shore of the fjord and north to the trees and the steep hillside that rose out of the land next to the Vestrhall’s walls. Three shields deep it went and Raef looked down the line, then out across the empty ground to the Hammerling’s force. With the threat of arrows reduced, the Hammerling’s men had formed a single wall, the same length as Raef’s, or near enough. No doubt the Hammerling had five or six rows of warriors waiting behind the first. For every man who went down, another would step over their fallen sword-brother and take his place. For a moment, Raef swept his gaze the length of the line. Searching for Hauk of Ruderk was as natural to him as breathing, but Raef could not afford to lose himself to his vengeance, not yet. With a deep breath, Raef focused on the Hammerling instead. He watched Brandulf’s mouth open, watched him shout a command, watched as the warriors began to churn through the snow. Raef’s heartbeat slowed with each step they took. Around him, voices called for the line to brace, and then at last the thunder of clashing shields filled the twilight.
