by T L Greylock
“I see much, Skuli,” Raef called. “What troubles you?”
“Do you not smell it?”
The words were not yet out of Skuli’s mouth when Raef saw it. There, camouflaged against the swath of blue and grey, was a smear of smoke. And then the wind brought Raef the scent of fire, ash, and burning things.
“You see, Skallagrim, already the tides turn against the whore of Narvik.” Eiger’s voice, sly and satisfied, slunk into Raef’s ears and Raef had to swallow down the urge to seize him and choke the breath from his fleshy neck. Raef watched the smoke, distant and dark, his heart thudding in his chest once, twice, and then he vaulted down from his perch, drew a knife, and approached Eiger, who, eyes wide with fear, tried to use his bound hands to urge his horse away. Raef grasped Eiger’s wrist and sawed at the rope until it fell away. He kept the rope linking their two horses intact and went to stand at Skuli’s side.
Raef placed a hand on Skuli’s arm and the eyeless man tilted his face as though he would look at Raef.
“I need you to do something for me, Skuli.”
“Yes, lord.”
“You must stay here with Ten-blade. He will regain his mind and his strength and his will before the moon is high. I will secure him, but you must be his keeper. Can you do that?”
“Yes.” And Raef believed him. There was more life and less terror in Skuli’s voice than Raef had heard since the return from the Dragon’s Jaw.
Ten-blade was loose and limp and pliable in Raef’s arms as he took him from his horse. Descending a short distance from the summit of the ridge they had been following, Raef chose a white pine of wide and sturdy trunk and lashed Ulthor to it. Then he led Skuli there, showing the blind man’s hands where the tree lay, where the horses were tethered, where the spare blankets were tucked, where the skins of water hung, and where the hard cheese and dried meat were nestled in the packs. It would be enough to last them several days, though Raef did not want to think they would need it.
“Ten-blade is clever and cruel, Skuli, and when he recovers he will be as furious as Jörmungand when Thor caught the great serpent on his fishing hook. Do not untie him, you hear? Let him piss himself.”
“Yes, lord.”
Raef hesitated, searching the bandaged face before him. “Someone will come for you.” Raef tried not to let his uncertainty be heard in his voice. If things went badly, no one would know where Raef had left a blind man to guard a savage warrior.
Skuli nodded. “Go, lord. I will wait.”
Raef backed away, desperate to ride south and yet reluctant to leave Skuli so vulnerable, then he turned and raced back to the summit and mounted his horse.
“Why not slit his throat and be done?” Eiger asked as Raef set a quick pace to retrace their steps. “You go to fight Fengar. Why leave one of his warriors alive?”
“Someone has a greater claim to Ulthor Ten-blade’s life than I.”
The sky was one hundred shades of blue and black by the time Raef drew his horse up at the edge of the ice-dotted river, but the blazing pines on the far bank lit the night.
There was little to see. Smoke, thick and dark, poured out of the pines and drifted across the river, obscuring Raef’s view. He could hear only the rushing wind of the fire. There was no sign of battle, of Fengar, of Bryndis’s host of warriors.
“I am not going over there.” Eiger had halted his horse as far from Raef as the rope tethering them together would allow.
“You are.” Raef no longer had anger to spare for the Great-Belly’s son. He urged his horse into the water and Eiger’s followed.
The river was deeper than he had expected and soon Raef found himself in icy water to his waist. The horse’s legs churned beneath him as the beast was forced to swim, head raised high to fight off the water, nostrils wide in fear, and Raef felt the current dragging him, threatening to sweep him away. By the time the horse found its footing in shallower water, Raef was drenched and shaking with the cold. The far bank was steeper and the horse struggled up the slope, hooves sticking in the slick mud and snow. Raef dismounted in a tumble and dragged Eiger, who flailed in the river, his foot caught in a stirrup, up onto land.
On his knees, Raef caught his breath and stared into the blazing forest, the heat welcome against his skin and soaked clothing. Further down the bank, a man stumbled from the trees, his cloak a ribbon of flame behind him. His fingers worked uselessly at the clasp on his shoulder as the fire consumed more and more of the cloth, and, just strides from the water that would save him, he tripped over a protruding root and sprawled on the ground. The flaming cloak settled over him. Raef raced to the warrior and caught hold of one of his arms, hauling him the remaining distance to the river. The flames extinguished with a hiss and a rush of steam and together Raef and the warrior scrambled to shore.
The man was unburnt and unknown to Raef and for a moment they stared at each other, each wary of the other.
“What has happened here?” Raef asked, wiping river water from his eyes. The cold was deep in his bones and he had to work to produce the words.
The warrior stared back into the smoking forest and shook his head, remembering. “There was no warning.”
Raef made to grab the man’s shoulder, hoping to shake some words from him, but he restrained himself. “Where is Fengar? Or the lady Bryndis?”
“Walls of flame. Stinging sparks. A sea of smoke. So sudden.” The warrior looked back at Raef and took him by the shoulders. “Without warning,” he said, again. “It hounded us, no matter where we fled.” Removing his hands from Raef, the man fumbled for the hammer that hung from his neck and after his fingers latched onto it, his lips moved silently, words for Thor’s ears.
Raef turned from the man and searched the fire for further signs of life. It was clear the blaze had spread and traveled. Raef looked to the northwest, where the land swept upward, where Fengar’s path from the ancient fortress would have taken him. The trees there were scorched and blackened, their branches still smoking. Raef did not doubt that most of Fengar’s men had been caught in the thick of the fire, lungs gasping for air, skin blistered and bleeding. The forest had gained an army of corpses.
As he watched the smoke billow from the treetops, a roar filled Raef’s ears and a rush of wind sucked past him, so strong that it lifted Raef’s heels from the ground and he stumbled forward to keep his feet. The wind surged into the trees and then rose to the stars and, as though the cold, wild air had caught up the flames in its embrace, the fire was gone, disappearing into the dark expanse of sky, leaving only the sweet scent of smoke, a shower of sparks to drift to the ground, and silence that poured into Raef’s senses.
Raef felt for the hammer that no longer hung from his neck. He had been certain that Vakre had caused the fire, that the son of Loki, in desperation, had set the blaze to keep his uncle from escaping. But though Vakre could birth flames from his fingers, he could not send them to the sky to be swallowed by darkness, he could not command the winds. No, this was something else at work.
Raef returned to his horse, where Eiger waited. The big man avoided Raef’s gaze, but he could not hide the trembling of his jaw as he fought to control his fear. Searching in his small pack, Raef pulled out a clean cloth meant for bandaging wounds and went to the river. Kneeling, he soaked the cloth in the icy water, wrung it out, then tied it around his mouth and nose. Raef turned to Eiger.
“Well? Do you wish to choke on the smoke in there?”
Eiger grimaced and tore a strip from the hem of his shirt, then followed Raef’s example and tied it, dripping, around his face.
“Will you not give me a weapon?” Eiger asked, his voice muffled by the wet wool. His dark gaze scanned over Raef’s assortment of weapons and there was greed in his eyes.
“Are you afraid of corpses?”
Eiger’s eyes narrowed and Raef was sure that if the moon were brighter he would see a flush of embarrassment on the fleshy cheeks that bulged above the wet cloth. “You do not know what we will find
in there.”
“I know that I do not trust you, and that is enough.”
Without another word, Raef cocked his head toward the smoking forest and waited until Eiger was three steps ahead of him before following. With a final look back at the warrior who lingered on the riverbank, staring at Raef, he plunged into the smoke. Only then did he draw his axe from his belt, taking care to do so silently for he did not wish Eiger to know that he, too, felt the edge of fear.
The wet cloth provided welcome relief from the smoke, but as they pushed deeper into the ruined forest, Raef’s eyes began to sting. He drove Eiger onward whenever the other man hesitated and directed him to turn now and then, though there was little to guide them. When they came across the first body, the river was out of sight, lost in the ash. The warrior’s skin was blistered, his fingers black and charred. After that, the corpses were everywhere. Some were less damaged, recognizable, even, had Raef known their faces, and at length he came to see that a few clung to life. These stared up at him, only their shifting eyes giving indication that they had not yet gone to Valhalla. Raef saw pain in those eyes.
It came as a surprise when they found one young warrior, a woman, nearly untouched by the flames. She was limping through the trees, the point of her sword dragging behind her, her face a mask of ash that hid pale skin. The leather boot on her left foot had melted away, and the wool underneath, leaving her foot bare and bloody. When Raef came up behind her and took her hand, for she seemed not to hear his approach, the shieldmaiden looked at him in confusion and tried to twist out of his grasp.
“Steady,” Raef murmured, tucking the axe back in his belt. He let go and raised his hands to show her he meant no harm. He turned to Eiger. “Take her back to the river. See that she drinks water.”
Raef could see Eiger’s relief in his eyes, but he hesitated. “How do you know I will not flee?”
“Because you need me. Remember, I had stars in my hair and a storm in my eyes,” Raef said, throwing Eiger’s own words back at him. He was rewarded with a look of loathing, but Raef could see Eiger still clung to his dream. “You will not gain the gates of Asgard without me.”
Eiger grabbed the shieldmaiden and propelled her before him in the direction of the river.
“You will not touch her,” Raef said, wondering how far his control over the man extended. He watched them go, and then continued on into the forest.
Raef, following the swath of burnt trees up into the hills, found twelve more warriors who were more living than dead. After scanning their faces to be sure Fengar, Hauk, and Romarr of Finnmark were not hiding behind smears of ash, Raef gave each a sip of water from his skin and directed them down to the sanctuary of the river.
The night seemed endlessly long and more than once Raef searched the eastern sky for signs of the sun. He came across a small pond, the clear water now soiled with ash and burned branches that had come to rest there. Removing the wrap around his face, Raef drenched it once more and tied it again, but a ripple across the pond’s surface stilled his movements.
Still crouching, Raef waited for the ripple to subside, but no sooner had the pond gone still than it was disturbed once more and this time the surface of the dark water writhed and boiled and Raef watched in astonishment as a small figure, her shoulders breaking the surface, rose from the depths until she stood before Raef, the water lapping at her slender waist.
“Cilla?” Raef asked, rising to his full height to stare at her.
The girl had always been small, but now, soaked and dripping, she was reduced to so little that Raef could hardly be sure she was not a creature from the stories of his childhood.
Raef’s astonishment doubled when Cilla splashed her way out of the pond and threw her skinny arms around him, her face buried in his chest. Raef put one hand on her head and was wrapping the other arm around her when she pulled away and stepped back, allowing herself only that small moment of comfort. Cilla wiped at the water dripping from her chin, looking up at Raef though she kept her head lowered. The air in the forest was still warm from the fire, but the pond was cold and Raef could see Cilla was fighting the urge to shiver.
“Cilla,” Raef said again. He pulled the cloth down from his face and unhooked his cloak. He had left his heavy fur cloak in Bryndis’s hall, content to rely on a thinner, lighter woven one for travel, but it would seem a warm embrace to Cilla’s slight frame. Raef went down on one knee and held out the cloak. Cilla hesitated, then stepped into it and let Raef do the clasp at her collarbone. Raef put a hand on Cilla’s arm, then reached around her neck and drew her limp, dripping hair over her shoulder with his other hand. With gentle fingers, Raef wrung the water out of her hair, and only then did he look her in the eye, catching her gaze just before it flitted away. The tangled mix of hope and mistrust he saw there wrenched at his heart.
“You are the bravest eleven year old I will ever know.”
“I am twelve now,” Cilla said. “I think.”
Raef smiled and straightened the cloak on her shoulders. It was far too big and threatened to slip off. “Let me be brave for you now, Cilla. For both of us.”
Cilla looked at him and he could see her struggle against giving in, could see her resist the vulnerability he was offering her, but after a moment she nodded and her eyes flooded with relief. Raef stood and offered his hand.
“Come, you must help me search.”
“What are we looking for?” Cilla put her palm against his and Raef wrapped his fingers around her small hand. She had new calluses.
“Life.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
They found Fengar in a ravine. The would-be king was drenched in snowmelt and the rocky sides of the ravine were dark with running water. Soon the cold air of winter would have dominion once more, but the heat of the fire had created a myriad of tiny, surging waterfalls and Fengar had found refuge from the gorging flames deep in the earth.
It was Cilla who spotted him, but Fengar, sitting with his head in his hands as water dripped onto the back of his exposed neck, did not stir when Raef called down to him.
“You will have a hard time climbing out when all this water turns to ice,” Raef said.
Fengar raised his head. “Perhaps it is better if I stay down here.”
It would be easy to agree with him, to walk away and let Fengar slide quietly into death. The three kings spawned by the gathering would all be gone.
“Have you ever watched a man starve to death?” Raef let his question hang in the air before continuing. “I have not. But I have heard that it is a cruel way to go.” Raef waited another moment. “First your belly will beg for food until it no longer knows it is hungry. Then you will wither to nothingness, but not without pain. Your limbs will weaken and the slightest touch, a leaf floating on a gentle breeze, will have you screaming in agony. And you will linger. Starvation is not swift, Fengar.”
It was a long time before Fengar answered. Raef stifled a yawn and rubbed his tired eyes. Cilla watched.
“The gods have forsaken me, Skallagrim. Perhaps this is the death I deserve. I am tired of this life. Up there,” Fengar craned his neck, twisting to take in the sliver of lightening sky above him, “up there is only shame and hatred for me.”
“I know not if the gods have forsaken you, Fengar, but I know you are not deserving of such a death. I would not wish it even on my most hated enemy.” As Raef spoke the words, he knew they were true. He had deprived Jarl Thrainson, the man whose spear had ripped the life from his father, of a seat in Valhalla, he had made the blood eagle on Isolf’s back, and he would bring death to Hauk of Ruderk even at the breaking of the world, but even Hauk would die a warrior’s death.
“What do you gain from seeing me live?” Fengar asked. He used the slick rocks to pull himself to his feet.
“Nothing.”
“Is it true you were named king?”
“Yes.”
“Then you most of all should want me dead.”
“I will not be king.”
“Bryndis will call a gathering. And the voices of the warriors will be heard. As they should have been,” Raef said.
“I underestimated her,” Fengar said, his voice low and weary. “We all did. Stefnir most of all. And I trusted him. As I always did.” Fengar hung his head. “She will not rest until I am dead. If you share her vision for a gathering, Skallagrim, you will kill me and be done.”
Raef took a deep breath and looked to the sky, pink and grey and gold beyond the reach of the burned, blackened trees.
“The fire burned hot and fast. Few escaped. Many of the bodies are charred and blistered beyond recognition.” Raef paused. “That ring on your finger. It is fine silver.”
Fengar looked up at Raef, reaching for the band of silver on his right hand as his eyebrows knit together. “What are you saying?”
Raef shrugged. “Only that it is valuable. Tell me, what is etched around the band?”
Fengar’s frown deepened. “The ring bears the name of my ancestor, Bryngolf Brightshield.”
“Beloved of the gods was Bryngolf.”
“Yes.” Fengar’s voice was laced with suspicion.
“And famous, still, as the ancestor of Solheim.”
“Yes.”
“No one would doubt the authenticity of that ring.”
Fengar held Raef’s gaze and Raef knew the other man at last understood.
“Take your life and go, Fengar. Leave the ring and I will see that your death is known. But you cannot go home. You must no longer be Fengar of Solheim. Buy sheep, find a woman, learn how to make cheese.”
“You would let me go?” There was wonder in Fengar’s voice.
“Do you not wish to live? To be free of the yoke Stefnir of Gornhald and Hauk of Ruderk burdened you with?”
“To live in such a manner would bring shame to my ancestors.”
