by T L Greylock
Raef dug in, his feet slipping on the snow-slick ground, Siv’s shield pressing against his back, but the force of the collision pushed him back and his own shield slammed into the side of his head. Beside him, Vakre and Dvalarr had also lost ground, but as three they surged forward, regaining a step. A spear thrust beneath Raef’s shield, just missing the flesh above his knee, and an axe came over the top, hooking onto the iron-edged wood and threatening to tear it from Raef’s grip. Shifting to his right, Raef found an opening and thrust up with his short sword. He felt the blade strike bone, heard a scream, and the axe hung limply from Raef’s shield. Already he was hacking at another exposed limb.
A bellow of pain from Raef’s left told him Dvalarr had taken a wound, but the Crow did not stagger, did not falter, and the press of body against body was endless. Raef’s world was reduced to his shield arm, straining to give him room enough to work the short sword, and the trampled snow beneath his feet. A sword sliced through the shields and glanced off Raef’s forearm, but Raef jabbed forward with his shield, trapping the warrior’s sword and hand in the gap. From behind Raef, Siv hammered down on the man’s knuckles with the hilt of her sword while Raef stabbed under his shield into the man’s groin. The warrior dropped to his knees, the sword falling to the snow, and Raef shoved the dying man aside with his boot, earning himself a brief reprieve from the constant crush. But another warrior surged forward to fill the gap.
They were losing ground. Bit by bit the Hammerling’s wall was pushing them back, back, and soon they would be pressed up against the timber walls with no room to swing a sword. They would be hacked to bits.
“We must move forward,” Raef shouted, his voice caught in the roar of battle, and for a moment he was sure Vakre had not heard, but the son of Loki finished off an opponent with a grimace and caught Raef’s eye. Dvalarr gathered his voice in a yell worthy of the giants and fresh energy swelled from the rows of warriors behind Raef. One step, then two, finally a third, but the shields began to loosen, the warriors no longer in step as they battled for ground. Raef, tucked tight between Dvalarr and Vakre still, could feel it, could feel the line weaken, and knew soon it would break, leaving every warrior to fight alone.
Vakre stumbled against Raef, caught with the haft of an axe, the head narrowly avoided, and went to one knee. When he rose, the gap between them had grown, and suddenly the wall was gone. Raef slashed into his opponent’s shoulder, severing into the collarbone, the battle-joy contained in his gut flowing forth to fill his chest, his limbs, as he savored the freedom to move as he was meant to move. Raef dragged the short sword through flesh and bone until he had carved out a gaping hole in the warrior’s neck, then yanked the small blade free. The warrior fell to the ground and Raef dropped the short sword, transferred his shield to his right arm, and drew the sword that sung a song of death in his ear.
The steel song hummed around him and warriors and shieldmaidens died, some in empty silence, some with dreadful noises, but Raef knew only the feel of the blade in his hand, heard only his own heart beat with calm certainty, and dealt death to all who came within reach. And yet he knew it was not enough, knew that his men were too few, knew it was only a matter of moments before the enemy closed around him.
The thunder of hooves came to him like a wave rolling in from the sea in the same moment the hairs on the back of his neck stood up against a searing heat. He whirled and saw the flames envelop Vakre, flushing out from his torso to consume him from head to toe, banishing the warriors who had pressed close to him, and then the horsemen rushed out of the darkness, their spears impaling the enemy from behind, for Ailmaer Wind-footed had joined the battle at last, sweeping through the dark to fall upon the Hammerling’s rear.
A shout turned Raef in time to raise his shield and catch an axe arcing toward his head. The bearer of the axe tried to rip the head free, but the steel was caught fast and Raef was too quick. He slammed his shield into the warrior’s face and brought his sword down to plunge into his chest. As the warrior dropped to the ground and Raef wrenched his sword free, his gaze caught on a face, lit with Vakre’s fire, and he felt fury rage in his heart.
Hauk of Ruderk was unscathed, his blade smeared with the blood of dead men, and he was close, so close. Raef raced forward, his boots sliding on snow and blood, but a shadowy figure, untouched by Vakre’s light, hurled itself out of the darkness and planted itself between Raef and Hauk. A pair of eyes blazed out from beneath the hood, eyes set in a pale face, and Raef faltered, for there were stars in those eyes, and cold hatred.
“Visna?”
At last Vakre’s flames shed light on the shadows and Raef felt horror slide down the length of his throat and settle deep in his belly.
“Eira.”
Her throat was a ruin, crusted in dried blood. Her body trembled as if coursing with the strength of a sea at storm and those star-filled eyes bore into Raef so sharply that he already felt her sword pierce him. And yet she did not strike, did not lash out. Her head turned from him to Hauk, and she seemed a wild animal caught in a trap, unsure which way to run. Only when a Vannheim warrior launched himself at Hauk did she move, her sword, a dark thing that repulsed the firelight as she herself seemed to, darting out and opening the warrior’s chest from groin to neck. Then Eira grabbed Hauk and they were gone, vanishing into nothing.
Raef stared at the blackness they had left behind but a surge of heat called him back to the battle and he turned to help Vakre. But the son of Loki was far from harm.
Vakre hung in the air above the battle, floating higher than the top of the wall, wreathed in flames so hot and white they brought day to the battlefield and Raef was forced to shield his eyes as he stared up at his friend. Beneath him, warriors of both armies cowered in fear. Smoke curled from more than one cloak and Raef could see one man clutching at his arm, the skin raw and bleeding. Raef took a step forward, but the heat was too intense and he dared not go closer.
The battle ground to a halt as all eyes turned to the fire in the sky and it was not until Siv appeared at Raef’s side, her fingers brushing his elbow, that Raef stirred from the depths of his astonishment. He turned to her, scanning her for injury and finding little more than a slash on her upper arm. He wiped a smatter of blood from her cheek, and then Ailmaer Wind-footed was beside them. He dismounted and his horse, skittish under the flames, pranced away. Ailmaer held tight to the reins and lowered his eyes from Vakre.
“We have the Hammerling.” The older man was streaked with sweat, the Thor’s hammer at his neck gleaming in the light of Vakre’s fire. Raef saw one hand twitch as though he might reach up to clasp the metal for reassurance, but the hand stayed at his side and Ailmaer kept his gaze on Raef.
Raef nodded, then turned his own gaze skyward once more, squinting to ward out the light, one hand raised, fingers splayed in vain.
“Vakre.” His voice caught in his throat, a feeble, uncertain thing that he was sure the half god would not hear, much less heed. Raef tried again. “Vakre. Come back to us.” The blaze did not dim, the heat did not weaken. “Come back to me.”
At length the flames darkened, growing orange and yellow once more, and then Vakre drifted to the ground. Beneath him, warriors scrambled to keep their distance and at last he settled on the snow once more and the flames vanished on the night breeze. Raef blinked, struggling to see in the sudden dark. At last Vakre’s face came to him, a face lit only by starlight and moonlight and free of the tangle of flames.
Raef rushed forward, ready to catch Vakre should he fall, ready to defend himself should the son of Loki not know him, but he pulled up when he saw the calm in Vakre’s face. Their eyes met and Raef could still feel the heat pouring forth, but he closed the distance between them.
“Are you well?”
To his relief, Vakre nodded. “Yes.” He looked over Raef’s shoulder and inclined his head once more. “This is not over.”
Raef turned and saw the Hammerling caught between two of Ailmaer’s men. Brandulf fought
to keep his head high, to keep from crumpling, but his face was etched with pain and Raef could see the wound in his side even from a distance.
Around them, the Hammerling’s men were laying down their weapons, some with quick, nervous hands, others with reluctant faces, but all succumbing to the spears aimed at their chests by Ailmaer’s mounted warriors. A few tried to flee, seeking freedom in the darkness, but these were quickly run down and herded together with the rest.
Raef approached the Hammerling, who had dropped to one knee, his head sunk against his chest. Raef nodded at the pair of warriors, who backed away, and he lowered himself so that he might look in the eyes of the man who had been his king, his ally, his enemy. Raef placed a hand on Brandulf’s shoulder and the other man struggled to raise his head. Death ate at the edges of his eyes and the hand clamped to his wound, a deep slash that had ripped apart the thick leather, was dripping with blood.
“Say your piece, Skallagrim, and be done with me.” A last torrent of defiance burst out from between Brandulf’s clenched teeth and then the other leg gave way and the Hammerling pitched forward. Raef caught him by the shoulders and steadied him.
“How is it that I have had to watch two good men die, two men who might have made great kings, and the third survives still?”
The Hammerling coughed. “Your father would have been a better king than I. Or the Palesword.” He clutched at Raef’s shoulder with a trembling hand. “Is he dead?”
Raef frowned. “Fengar?”
“Hauk.”
Raef thought of Eira and the blackness woven around her, of her starry eyes, of her disappearance with Hauk. “He lives.”
“Find him. Finish him.”
“Where is your son?”
“I sent him away. Home.” The Hammerling’s fingers tightened on Raef’s shoulder. “Will you kill him?”
Raef shook his head. “No.” He hesitated. “I never meant to make you my enemy.”
“And yet you broke your oath.”
“What would you have done for your father?”
Brandulf’s courage fled from his face and he sank against Raef, who lowered him to the ground. “Perhaps you will yet become a king we might be proud of, Skallagrim.” His voice was low now, rough and broken. “My sword, my sword.” Raef glanced around them but the Hammerling’s blade was not in sight. Raef drew his own and pressed the hilt into Brandulf’s outstretched hand. The fingers curled tight, a warrior’s grip still, and something like contentment came into the Hammerling’s face. “I am ready. I will greet your father in Valhalla.”
Raef felt his throat close up. “Tell him,” he paused, unsure. “Tell him,” he tried again, but then he saw that Brandulf Hammerling was already gone.
NINETEEN
The fire that burned the Hammerling lasted to morning. Raef had stood vigil over it until the smoke drove him away, and then, after leaving instructions for the Hammerling’s warriors to be released, he retreated to his chamber in the Vestrhall and did not emerge until a bright sun was high in the sky and the Hammerling’s ashes were being swept into the fjord by a gentle wind.
He sought out Siv first, who waited alone in the hall, knees tucked to her chest as she perched on a bench. Raef slid onto the bench beside her.
“I am sorry.”
She reached out and tucked a strand of his hair that had worked loose behind his ear. “For what?”
“For shutting myself away.”
“I know what it is to seek solitude.” She smiled and held out her hand, palm facing him. Raef placed his palm against hers and wrapped his fingers between hers, his heart full to bursting with joy over Siv’s understanding. He stood and pulled her to her feet and settled a deep kiss on her lips.
“Come,” Raef said when he pulled away. “It is time I spoke to Vakre.”
They found Vakre by the fjord at the end of one of the docks. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his face turned toward the sun. He wore no cloak, nothing to keep winter at bay, and when Raef came close enough to touch him, he could feel the heat emanating from Vakre’s skin. It was a tender heat, an easy warmth free of malice or anger.
Vakre smiled at Siv, but then his eyes sought Raef. “Did I kill anyone?”
“No.” Raef watched the water shimmer in the sunlight and a deep longing for spring came over him. He swallowed that down. “I have to ask, Vakre, what did you do? How did you rise into the air?”
The son of Loki shook his head. “I do not know. I could feel my father, as I always do when wreathed in his gift. The power, the fury, the fear, they burned through me, and for a moment I could feel the lives of everyone below me as though they were beating hearts in the palm of my hand. Hearts I was meant to crush.” Vakre’s gaze met Raef’s and the pain there was laced with sadness and guilt. “I could have killed you all.”
“But you did not.”
“Not this time.”
There was nothing Raef could offer Vakre, no words of reassurance to counter the truth Vakre spoke.
“You told the Hammerling that Hauk still lived,” Siv said, breaking the silence.
Raef’s mind swam with visions of Eira as she had appeared on the field of battle under the stars. It seemed difficult to find the words to express what he had seen.
“Eira came for him.”
Siv frowned and Raef rushed on.
“Her throat was ripped open, torn to shreds by your arrow. But the blood was dried, and she was angry, so angry, but,” Raef paused, “uncertain, lost, somehow. She knew me and yet did not know me. Her eyes,” Raef hesitated again, then brushed past that image and continued. “She carried a sword, dark of blade and finely wrought.” Raef looked at Vakre. “It is a sword we know well.”
Understanding dawned in Vakre’s eyes, but he said nothing, leaving Raef to speak the words to Siv.
“She is a Valkyrie.”
The words hung over them, a shadow between them and the sun.
“Visna left to carry out her final task, one she dreaded and yet could avoid no longer. She had to find another to take her place, to carry her sword. There must be nine.”
“Would that she had chosen any other,” Vakre said. “And yet when you faced Visna at the burning lake, her sword was as a shard of sunlight. You said the steel was dark in Eira’s hand.”
Raef nodded. “Perhaps the sun will fill it in time. I do not know.”
“She will hunt you,” Siv said, her face darkened by a frown.
“I am not so sure. If she can remember, yes, if her hatred for me burns as bright now that she is of Asgard, if she still does Hauk’s will. But she may lose something of herself, just as Visna began to forget pieces of herself and her past life when she came to the world of men.” Siv did not seem convinced but she kept her doubts to herself. Raef put two fingers under her chin and drew her head up, his eyes searching hers. “Nothing good will come of thoughts like those. If Eira means to come for me, then she will come and I cannot stop her. But I will not live in fear of that moment. Not when there is so little time left to us.”
“And Hauk?” Vakre’s voice was soft but insistent. “If you find him, you may find her.”
“Then I will ask Odin to guide my hand, to put strength in my legs, to fill my lungs with breath enough to do what I must, what I owe my father.”
“Skallagrim.” Ailmaer Wind-footed stood with one foot planted on the dock, his arms crossed, a fox-fur hood pulled over his greying hair. “Our terms?”
Raef shifted his stance so that he faced Wind-footed head on. “Will be fulfilled. But I mean to see this view that pleases you so greatly.”
The hill stood over a wind-swept stretch of beach and under a swirling grey sky spitting snow. In summer, Raef knew, blue waters would lap at the sand and deposit new treasures dredged up by the sea’s waves, but winter held dominion here and the waves rolled up to the shore with increasing vigor, battering the cover of snow molded so carefully by the relentless wind.
They had ridden north for three days unde
r snow-laden skies, ferrying across fingers of grey water, passing within half a day’s ride of the valley where Raef had left Rudrak Red-beard to be sniffed out by hungry wolves. He wondered if any of Rudrak’s bones lingered yet under the spreading limbs of the oak Raef had tied him to, or if the wolves had long since removed any trace of the traitor. More than once on the ride north Raef had felt eyes watching them, but no threat revealed itself and he saw nothing.
“Old Troll, my father called it,” Raef said, looking up at the crest of the hill, a misshapen, rocky thing. As a boy he had laughed with delight to discover, with his father’s aid, the troll’s bulbous nose, craggy chin, and narrow eyes. At the summit, tall waving grasses had served as the troll’s unkempt hair. Now he saw only stones and Ailmaer Wind-footed’s unspoken words.
Little had passed between Raef and Ailmaer during the journey, for the mercenary was not inclined to answer Raef’s questions and Raef had forced himself to bite back words that might have sparked irritation.
