by T L Greylock
The hall emptied as the captains took their leave. Dvalarr lingered until Raef nodded for him to go, leaving only Siv. Raef sank into a chair and rested his head in his hands.
“There will be no consensus,” he muttered. “Olund is too stubborn, Skuli too eager to prove himself. The others will flock to one or the other.” He lifted his head. “Was it too much to ask? Should I have forced my decision upon them?”
“Do you know your own mind?” Siv asked.
Raef groaned. “No.” He drained the last of his ale. “I would not drag reluctant warriors into a battle they do not crave. But nor would I leave Bryndis unaided. The Hammerling was right, Siv. It is time this war was ended.” Raef took Siv’s hand and pulled her into his lap. “But Fengar is not all that is on my mind.” He kissed her earlobe and wrapped his arms around her, his gaze transfixed by her green eyes. “Siv. The darkness is coming for all of us. I would swear myself to you before it comes, in sight of all the gods. Will you have me?”
Siv traced two fingers along his jaw. “Yes.”
TWENTY-ONE
There was no priest to conduct the ceremony. Of Josurr, the young priest of Odin, there had been no sign since Raef had reclaimed the Vestrhall from Isolf. The sacred cave was abandoned, though whether Josurr had fled in fear of Isolf or seen an opportunity to lift the yoke of obedience Raef had shouldered him with, Raef could not be sure. He had given little thought to the priest’s absence, but now it chafed at him, so impatient was he to bind his life to Siv’s. Without the priest, they would have to wait, and so Raef was in a sour mood when he roused himself with the sun to hear each captain’s decision. But before he could hear the captains, Raef had a visit to make.
Eirik of Kolhaugen had sustained a leg wound in the battle outside the Vestrhall’s walls. The lord of Kolhaugen had intended to leave with the remainder of the Hammerling’s men, whose lives Raef had spared, but Raef would not let him limp away into the wild with the surviving warriors of Kolhaugen. The wound was healing well, though it was still wrapped in heavy bandages and caused Eirik pain when he moved in haste.
“I will grow fat on this fish your kitchen woman keeps feeding me,” Eirik said after Raef found him seated across from the warm kitchen hearth and under a string of dried herbs. The scent of baking bread filled Raef’s nose.
Raef grinned. “She does make good fish.” He gestured to the knife in Eirik’s hand and the basket of trout at his feet. A small pile of silver scales gleamed on the dark wood of the long table. “Found a way to make yourself useful?”
Eirik shrugged. “A fish is only a fish. But a fish cleaned to perfection, now that is something to behold.”
“I bet young Gurin could clean ten in the time it takes you to do one.”
Eirik waved the little knife at Raef. “But does young Gurin know how to peel back the skin without damaging the flesh?”
“He learned from the best,” Raef said, grinning.
Eirik laughed, a good strong laugh that Raef was glad to hear. A comfortable silence fell over them and Raef went to the hearth, where a broth simmered, waiting, no doubt, for the fish and the root vegetables Darri was peeling just outside the kitchen door.
“How is your leg?”
“Mending. I will be fit to travel by the time the moon is full.”
“And then?”
Silence for a moment. “And then home for me, Skallagrim.” Another pause and Raef turned away from the hearth. Eirik sighed. “I have been away a long time.”
“And you return alone.”
“Yes.” Eirik’s gaze went to the knife. He flicked a scale from its edge and then plucked a fish from the basket. “Yes.” He ran the knife across the striped body once, twice. “It will be a strange thing to set foot in Kolhaugen knowing that my brother is dead.”
“Strange, but better for your people, no?”
“Better for them, yes.” Still Eirik did not look up from the trout in his hand. Raef waited. The knife came to a halt and Eirik laid it with precision on the table, then looked at Raef. “Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to go back. Back to the way things were, I mean.”
“Before Alvar was dead?”
“Not just that. Before the Palesword raised an army of warriors that could not be killed. Before this war ravaged over the lands of so many. Before Fengar was named king. Before your father died. Things might be different.”
“Perhaps,” Raef said. “But Fenrir has the Allfather’s scent and the drops of poison that will bring Thor to his knees hang already from Jörmungand’s teeth. Things might be different, but all that would be very much the same.”
Eirik was quiet. “You are right,” he said at last. He smiled to himself, then the grin grew. “And so I shall go home to Kolhaugen and clean fish and drink mead until the twilight of the gods comes.” He grew serious once more. “And then I shall stand with the Einherjar until the end.”
Raef nodded.
“I will look for you there, Skallagrim.”
Raef nodded again, but he could not bring himself to speak the lie, to say that he would stand beside Eirik. There was no place for him in the last great host of warriors, in the army of the slain that would succumb with the gods to Surt’s flaming sword. He let the shadow of Eirik’s words diffuse with the scent of hot bread.
“I will not be here when you are well enough to travel,” Raef said.
“Fengar?”
“Is within reach. If only we have the strength to grasp him.”
“I would aid you if I could.”
Raef shook his head. “Go home. And may the gods give you peace before the end.”
The captains came to him one by one, Olund first and unwavering, Skuli last and bold. In the end, four wished to spare Vannheim from further bloodshed and four sought victory over Fengar. But no longer was Raef’s own mind mired in doubt and so the split voices of his captains troubled him less than he had expected. Raef followed Skuli from the hall into the early morning light, where the rest waited.
“My mind is clear,” Raef told the captains. “I will not leave Bryndis to face Fengar alone. But neither will I condemn he who wishes to keep his blade sheathed.” The captains cast sideways glances at each other. “I ride to Narvik. Any warrior or shieldmaiden who wishes to follow is welcome. Those who would stay will not face judgment.”
“Except from the gods.” Skuli’s accusation bit into the chill of the morning air and Olund flushed red with anger. The older man lunged for Skuli, teeth bared, restrained only by Melkolf’s strong arm.
“Would you threaten me?” Olund bellowed. “Say that again when my axe rests between your balls.”
Raef descended from the stone steps and stood between snarling Olund and Skuli, whose lips curled up with disdain.
“Brothers, enough. Ill words between us will only sow discontent, and that I will not have. The warriors who remain in the village must be given the choice. Riders must be sent to inform others. See to it.” Raef waited until the captains walked away, Olund striding stiff-legged with Melkolf at his shoulder, young Njall casting quick glances at Raef and Skuli, who was last to step away. Raef reached out and grabbed the edge of Skuli’s cloak, yanking to turn the captain around.
“Insult them again and I will strip you of all that I have given you.” Raef’s gaze strayed to the pair of arm rings decorating Skuli’s forearm to make his meaning clear. “My father’s captains knew when to speak and when to keep silent. Think on this and save your nerve and your slurs for Fengar.” Raef held Skuli’s stare and only released him when the other man forced out a stiff nod. Raef watched him go and wished again that Finnolf and Thorald and Yorkell lived yet to stand beside him.
“The best of us have died and gone to the gods,” Raef said to Dvalarr, who had watched all in silence from the highest step. “We are left to face the end without their courage, their wisdom.”
“The end?” The Crow’s face was creased in confusion and Raef cursed his clumsy tongue for saying too much.
; “The end of this war,” Raef said, “and whatever it brings.”
TWENTY-TWO
Death and destruction had come to Narvik. Fifty-two warriors had chosen to follow Raef south and their course took them first through the western edge of Silfravall and then on into Narvik, a place of narrow valleys and small farms, a land surrounded on two sides by harsh, barren peaks. And yet the soil was rich, nurtured by glacial water, and much coveted was the wool shorn from Narvik’s sheep.
The northern-most valley smelled still of smoke and fire, though the ashes were long since cooled. Four farms had perched on the hillsides, their pastures stretching from the valley floor and the stream that meandered there, to the high hills, home to eagles. But all four farms were burned, their buildings hollow shells or crumbled ruins. The carcasses of sheep and horses and cattle had been picked clean by scavengers, their bones littering the snow. The next valley was much the same, only Raef was not so sure all the bones belonged to animals. Once he thought he saw the grey, lithe form of the lynx slinking through the burned wreckage of a farm, for she had followed the warrior column as it wound away from the Vestrhall, but it turned out to be nothing more than an ash-smeared piece of cloth billowing in the breeze. He had not caught sight of the lynx since evening of the second day. She had come to Raef’s fire that night, sniffed his hand, curled once around each leg, and then she had trotted off into the darkness without a backward glance. In his heart, Raef knew she had claimed her independence, knew he would not see her again.
Raef spotted the watcher at dawn on their second day in Narvik lands. A lone rider stood on the ridge above them, silhouetted against the eastern sky, a tall spear piercing the roof of the world. The horse trotted out of sight not long after the camp began to stir, but three times that day Raef caught sight of the lone warrior as they continued south, pushing deeper into Narvik.
The rains came that night, cruel shards and pellets spit from the sky, coating cloaks and boots with a slick shell of ice. Beards froze, stiff and matted, and hoods drawn tight still did not keep the sting from cheeks and eyelids. Raef called an early halt and they spent a miserable night hunkered down under thick pine branches without fire and only small bites of dried venison to sustain them. But with the dawn came blinding sunshine and every twig, stone, and dangling, brown leaf blazed in the new light, for the world was made of ice and nothing else.
Raef broke through the pine branches above him, shattering the ice into countless slivers, and stepped out into the snow. Taking a deep breath, he massaged the back of his neck and watched the air exhaled from his lungs take shape and hover in front of his face for a moment before being dispelled. He turned back to the pine tree to wake Siv and show her the new day when an arrow pierced the hard surface of the snow at his feet. Raef froze and scanned the trees for the archer, but all was still.
“Clever,” he called out. “Lay your trap while we shelter from the storm. Most would not have the will to wait out the night in such weather. You show much fortitude, Bryndis of Narvik.”
Behind him, the pine branches parted as Siv was drawn out by the sound of Raef’s voice and he could hear others stirring from within their cocoons of ice.
“Stay where you are, Siv,” Raef murmured. But he could not warn them all and soon his warriors were stepping out into the open air. “Bryndis.” Raef’s voice rang out through the trees, made sharper, it seemed, by the ice. “I am not your enemy.”
“No.” The woman’s voice came from his left. “No, it would seem you are not.” Bryndis of Narvik stepped forth from her hiding place. She was dressed in dark leather and a cloak that glittered with ice, her pale white hair bound back in intricate braids, her eyes made fierce by charcoal paint sweeping away from her bottom lids. As she revealed herself, the trees came alive on all sides of Raef’s camp as warriors stepped forth. Raef let his gaze drift over them and saw that they were poorly clothed and poorly armed. They were farmers and fishermen dressed in leather, their hands used to holding rod and line or shears, not the tall spears they clutched to their chests. Warriors they might not be, but their faces were grim, their eyes determined, and Raef knew there was strength to be found in Narvik. “Skallagrim?”
“Yes.”
Bryndis came close to Raef, head tilted up as her eyes searched his for a moment, and then she held out a hand encased in a leather glove. Without taking his eyes from hers, Raef clasped her forearm and the tension slipped from the air.
“How did you know it was me? It could have been Fengar with an arrow aimed at you.” Bryndis had removed her gloves and stood with her hands over a fire. In the presence of such warmth, her cloak was melting and she brushed excess water from her shoulders.
“Fengar would not have had the will to endure the storm. But if he had, that arrow would have been aimed here,” Raef said, tapping a hand to his heart.
Bryndis nodded and then looked over her shoulder to where Raef’s men mingled with those of Narvik. “Is this all?”
“Vannheim has suffered much, lady. I made no demands on my people, only took those who wished to come. More might have been gathered, but that would have taken time I did not care to waste.”
Another nod from Bryndis. If she was disappointed by Raef’s numbers, she did not let on. “A hazard of having your people spread over such a vast amount of land. Others might beg the gods for such a dilemma.” She stared hard at Raef and then broke into a smile that flitted quickly away from her features. “We do not stand alone. Not quite. I have sought help from many. Garhold does not answer. Sverren of Bergoss sent back a frozen piece of horse shit instead of my messenger. Axsellund is silent. Silfravall says little. Leska of Kollumheim promises nothing.”
“Uhtred of Garhold is dead, lady. As is Torleif of Axsellund. Who rules in those lands, I cannot say, but we will have no help from them.”
Bryndis took this news with a twist of her lips and a nod.
“Who, then, answered your plea?”
“Balmoran.”
Raef frowned. “Last I saw Thorgrim Great-Belly, he was content to let his hall play host to a new king.”
“Perhaps at first, though he managed to avoid committing warriors to battle, the cunning whoreson. But the Great-Belly is failing and I do not think the decision to ride to my aid was entirely his.”
“What do you mean?”
“His son is lord in all but name.” Bryndis shot Raef a look of annoyance. “They quarrel endlessly.”
“And Fengar? Where is he?”
Bryndis turned solemn. “He is holed up a day’s ride from here. His position is well-defended.”
“His numbers?”
Bryndis shook her head. “Uncertain. Many.” She bit her lip. “Enough to burn a great many of my people’s homes.”
“We saw evidence of his passing as we came south. I hope some survived.”
“Most. They have fled to Narvik’s fortress and sit and wonder if they will starve.”
Raef nodded his sympathy. “Fengar slaughtered many good animals.”
Bryndis’s gaze hardened. “Fengar burned farms, yes, and killed those who might have opposed him, but you are wrong, Raef Skallagrim. My people butchered their own animals.”
“Why?”
“Better that the enemy be unable to feast on what we have lost, no?”
“A harsh way to live.”
“Narvik is small and has always fallen prey to wolves who would pluck up land the gods did not give them. The people here learned long ago that the world is harsh.” Her voice and words defied her years and Raef nodded his respect.
“You have a warrior’s spirit and a ruler’s head, Bryndis.”
“You flatter me. But tell me, do you speak as a king? Or a fellow warrior who knows what it is to rule?”
“What do you think?”
The smile threatened to return. “Perhaps I will reserve judgment.” Bryndis’s gaze narrowed and her face grew hard. “But I want to know, Skallagrim, I have made my intentions to you clear. When Fengar is d
ead, I will call another gathering. Will you hinder me?”
“No.”
“Bluntly spoken.”
“The truth is often blunt.”
“Is it, then? The truth?” Bryndis did not wait for Raef to answer. “Come. The Great-Belly will wish to see you.” She turned to go to her horse, a tall black creature waiting with little patience, but Raef called her back.
“Bryndis.”
She looked over her shoulder, eyebrows raised.
“Has a man called Vakre come this way?”
Bryndis shook her head. “I know of no such man.” She seemed about to speak, but the question remained behind her lips and she pulled herself into the saddle. “Have your men fall in, Skallagrim.”
The hall of Narvik was nestled in the elbow of two valleys that joined on the shores of a deep lake. Bryndis led the approach from the northwest, but their progress down the valley was halted while the lake still shimmered in the distance. A party of riders cascaded out of the trees, enclosing the Vannheim and Narvik warriors with a well-timed maneuver, but Bryndis did not seem alarmed. Raef caught a grimace twist her face and heard the sigh escape from her lips. Her gaze flickered to Raef but she kept silent as one rider pushed ahead of the rest.
“So, the lady of Narvik returns unscathed.” The speaker had the look of Thorgrim Great-Belly, but younger. His face, ruddy in the cold, was wide and already fleshy. His torso was rounded with muscle that would sag and turn to fat with time.
Bryndis smiled. “Do you have so little confidence in me?”
“I only wonder if such risks are necessary. Your safety is paramount.”
The smile remained but Raef could see it was strained. “Your concern is kind, Eiger, but my safety is no more important than that of any warrior. Much must be risked in war.” The fleshy man’s gaze shifted to Raef, who had pulled his horse up alongside Bryndis. The lady of Narvik answered the unasked question. “The lord of Vannheim has joined our fight.” Bryndis looked to Raef and nodded in the direction of the stranger. “Eiger of Balmoran, the Great-Belly’s son.”
