by T L Greylock
“I will never join you.” The words were nothing more than a whisper. Raef tried again, forcing air from his lungs though he still felt caught in the grip of the fjord his uncle had drowned in. “I will never join you.” Raef kept his eyes locked with Hauk’s, but a slip of a shadow moving between trees behind Hauk’s shoulder caught Raef’s attention. He did not need to look to know who approached. He knew only one man with such wolf-like movements. “You must be desperate, indeed, Orleson,” Raef said, intent on keeping the lord of Ruderk focused on him, “if you think I will ever hear what you have to say, if you think I will ever join hands with my father’s murderer.”
“You could rise above all your ancestors, Skallagrim, you could be the greatest of them all,” Hauk said. “Or you could cling to the same faults that plagued your father and be no different than a man who killed his brother.”
Raef blinked, then, for the image of his drowning uncle that shadowed his vision vanished, replaced by a pair of lungs, quivering, red and bloody in the cold winter air, framed by the splintered shards of Isolf’s white ribs, the gaping ruin of his cousin’s back and spine searing into Raef’s open eyes.
But then Vakre was there, emerging from the shadows, his knife caressing Hauk’s throat, and the son of Loki was commanding Cilla’s release. Hauk’s grip on Cilla was slipping, his eyes widening, his muscles stiffening against the cold steel on his skin, and then a quick hammered strike to Hauk’s temple with the hilt of the knife sent the lord of Ruderk crumpling to the ground.
Raef turned away, a long breath shuddering out from deep within his lungs. He put one hand against the smooth, soft trunk of a pale birch and only then did he see the tremors in his fingers and feel the weakness in his legs. He did not dare let go, though he wished to be far from that place, wished to run as though his strides could carry him away from the horror Hauk had unleashed in his mind.
Raef closed his eyes, summoning shreds of memory, his father showing him how to steer a long, lean ship, the first deer felled by Raef’s arrow under Einarr’s watchful eye, the jarring blows of Einarr’s sword against Raef’s shield as father taught son to keep it raised high, no matter how heavy, no matter how weary the arm grew. Raef could hear the blows as the sword battered again and again against the wood, he could smell the leather his father wore and the sweat that warmed the skin beneath, he could feel the burning in his shield arm and the calluses on his left hand, his sword hand, slick with his own sweat. The memory grew and grew until Raef no longer knew he was in the wilds of Narvik, until he no longer remembered Hauk, Vakre, or Siv, but then it changed and Einarr’s eyes were no longer his own. Raef saw his father’s face shift, saw his own anger and fury burning back at him from those blue depths, saw what it was like to look into the face of the Skallagrim in Vannheim and see death there.
Pain brought Raef out of the depths of his mind. Blinking, he saw a droplet of blood welling on his palm, saw that he no longer held the smooth bark of the birch, that he had stepped into the thorny embrace of a blackthorn bush. He plucked the thorn from his palm, let the dark blood gather and pool, then knelt and placed his hand atop the snow. He waited until the snow had cooled his palm, then rose, leaving behind a stain.
“Raef?”
Raef looked over his shoulder. Vakre had left Hauk where he fell but he had not shed the hunter’s stance.
“Do you want me to kill him?”
“I must,” Raef heard himself say. The words seemed to rouse him further and he could feel the sunlight on his face once more. He looked to Siv. “But not now.”
Vakre nodded and sheathed his knife. “The fire,” he said, “it spread far too fast, as though carried on the wings of eagles. I only meant to separate my uncle from the rest but no sooner had I set the spark than the forest was blazing.”
Behind Vakre, Siv closed her eyes and Raef could see her eyelashes darken with tears. Vakre, seeing Raef’s gaze shift, turned and went to Siv.
“What have I done?”
Siv blinked back the salty tears that threatened to spill over. Her cheeks were pale. “Nothing. I grieve only for the hostages who did not escape.” Siv reached for Cilla and took the girl’s hand, together they knelt beside Hauk of Ruderk and Siv withdrew a pair of leather thongs from a pouch at her belt. With nimble fingers, she began to fashion knots that would bind the prone man’s wrists.
Vakre looked at Raef, his anguish plain. “What have I done?” he asked again.
But Raef would not betray Siv’s truth, whatever had caused her to hold her tongue, so he told Vakre of the strange wind that had vanquished the fire so suddenly. “The spark may have been yours, but I think the fire answered to another.”
“My father?”
“It seems that way. But I do not pretend to understand the will of the gods or the workings of the nine realms.”
Vakre looked to Hauk. “And him?”
“Will you take him to the river? Bryndis’s army awaits on the eastern shore. The men of Vannheim must be there, though I have not seen them. Find Dvalarr.” Raef glanced at Hauk. Ordering Einarr’s death had been the work of much preparation; the savaging of Einarr’s reputation was the work of only a moment but it had proved no less thorough or painful to Raef. “Keep Hauk for me. I will return when I can.”
Vakre nodded, though Raef could see he had not set aside his guilt and the son of Loki glanced at Siv once more before returning his attention to Raef. “I heard what was said. Do you believe his claims?”
Raef did not trust himself to answer. He put a hand on Vakre’s arm. “Go. Please.”
Raef watched as Vakre, Hauk draped over his shoulder, took to the descent. Cilla, still wrapped in Raef’s cloak, trailed after. She clutched the hem up to her chest to keep from tripping on it as she picked her way down among the trees and Raef looked away only once they were out of sight. Siv had come to stand beside him, and he saw now that her eyes were dry.
“You did not tell him?”
“It is yours to tell.”
“What will you do?” Her voice was raw, but she did not accuse, and Raef knew what she did not say.
Though the thought of choosing Siv over Vakre opened a pit in his stomach that seemed deep enough to swallow him, he would, if it came to that. “I will be guided by you,” he said. Raef took her in his arms and kissed her. “I am yours,” he murmured.
TWENTY-NINE
Bekkhild’s hair was longer than Siv’s, but the sisters shared the same bright, rich blonde color, suffused with so many undercurrents of red and gold. She wore it loose, the long strands falling to her waist.
She had gone on hands and knees, Raef could see, in search of air that was not thick with smoke. The skirt of her dress was damp and muddy where it had dragged across the melting snow and her hands were black with dirt and ash. In the end, she had curled up at the base of a pine tree, one arm crooked around the slender trunk, the other held across her face, the drape of her sleeve shielding both nose and mouth.
The fire had not touched her, save for singeing the hem of her cloak, and her face was a refuge of peace amid the scorched earth and trees. Raef wondered what color irises lurked beneath her lids, what her voice sounded like, and how she might have smiled to see her sister again.
Siv lingered five paces from the body after catching sight of it and Raef waited, keeping his distance, until she crossed the empty space with deliberate steps and knelt beside Bekkhild’s body. She reached out and pushed a lock of hair away from her sister’s face, then put a hand to the pale, cool cheek.
“I often wondered if I would know her face or if the passing of so many years would make her a stranger to me.” Siv’s voice was quiet but strong. “I should not have doubted.” Siv raised her head and looked at Raef. “She was close.” They were not far from the edge of the fire’s path. Raef could see trees untouched by the black fingers of the flames, could smell the clean breeze. Only six spear lengths lay between Bekkhild and air that might have saved her life. “Do you think she knew?”
>
Raef shook his head, though he wished he might have a different truth for Siv, but she nodded, accepting it.
“I am glad, at least, to know her fate.”
The sun had set, leaving only bands of clouds washed in hues of orange and purple. To the east, the sky was already deep blue and the first stars were unveiled. Raef carried Bekkhild away from the place of death and stood by while Siv washed her sister in a quiet, shallow pool south of the ford. The dirt rinsed from Bekkhild’s hands, Siv combed through her sister’s long tresses of golden hair with her fingers and was beginning to braid it when Vakre approached and sat beside her.
“Your hands are cold,” Vakre said. “Let me.”
Siv hesitated, then let Vakre take Bekkhild’s hair from her. The son of Loki worked with precision and care, crafting a neat braid. Without a word, Siv handed Vakre a length of twine and Vakre secured the braid. Only when he had tied the knot did Vakre raise his gaze and look at Siv.
“Now, tell me, Siv, who is she? What have I done to you?” Vakre’s voice was so soft that Raef could hardly make it out, and at first Siv did not answer, but then she began to speak and Raef moved away, content to give them privacy. He crossed the river once more and found the Vannheim warriors where they had gathered on the riverbank.
Hauk of Ruderk was awake and among them, bound to Dvalarr’s saddle. He watched Raef approach with eyes that did not leave Raef’s face, but his own face was blank, his emotions carefully hidden away. The lord of Ruderk was a short man and surrounded by warriors all taller and broader than he, but to Raef he seemed a giant among them. Raef forced himself to look away and sought out Njall and Dvalarr the Crow. The young captain was full of questions, Raef could see, but Njall held his tongue when the Crow cuffed him on the back of the neck.
“Send Horik and Berrgund north,” Raef said, addressing Njall and naming two of his warriors. “Skuli awaits.” He went on to describe how the pair of warriors would find the blind man and his captive on the ridge where Raef had left them. He reiterated that under no circumstances should Ulthor Ten-blade be loosed from his bonds. Njall listened and raced off to issue Raef’s command, leaving Raef alone with the Crow.
For a moment Raef stood still, lost in thought. Across the water, barely visible in the deepening darkness, Vakre had drawn his sword. The son of Loki was offering the hilt to Siv and though Raef could not hear what Vakre was saying, he understood well enough.
“What are your orders, lord?” The Crow’s voice cut in but Raef could not look away from the bright blade in Vakre’s hand. “Lord?”
At last Raef tore his gaze away and forced himself to focus on Dvalarr’s weathered face, but it seemed that his heart had lifted from his body, that it lay now on the cold steel between Vakre and Siv, and for a moment Raef could not summon any words.
“The prisoner, lord, who is he?” Dvalarr persisted, ignorant of Raef’s struggle.
Mention of Hauk brought Raef back to himself and he could feel his heart beating inside his ribs once more. “He is the lord of Ruderk,” Raef said, “and he is responsible for my father’s death.”
The sudden rage that flooded Dvalarr’s face was an old friend to Raef, for it was the same rage that had burned in him for so long. “When will he die and how will it be done?” The Crow did not ask to kill Hauk himself, but Raef could see that he yearned to do so.
“He will die tomorrow,” Raef said, the decision coming to him without thought. But he had no other answer for the Crow. He had waited so long for the moment he would bring justice to his father, but he had given little thought to the manner of death he would choose. And now, as he turned away from Dvalarr, his belly knotting as he saw that Siv and Vakre had vanished, he could not see Hauk’s death before him, but he could taste the salty water of the fjord, could feel its cold embrace, could see his uncle’s corpse sinking, forever beyond the sight of the stars and the sun and far, so far, from Valhalla.
There was no telling where Vakre and Siv had gone. With one eye on the western bank, Raef gave orders for suitable ground to be searched out so the Vannheim warriors might make camp, raise shelters, and build fires. He did not consult with Bryndis, did not even send for word of Eiger, whom Raef had last seen on the eastern bank when the sun was still high. He was weary and desperate for food and he wanted only to know what had passed between Siv and Vakre.
The Vannheim war band moved south, out of sight of the fires lit by Bryndis’s host, and set up camp on a rise above the river’s edge. The men were quiet, for, though they had moved downriver, they had not escaped the lingering smell of smoke and the memory of the fire that had blazed in the sky the night before hung over them. Raef knew he should sit among them, should speak with them, encourage them to laugh and sing, but he had only the strength to sit at the edge of the camp and stare into the dark. Cilla was near, he knew, lurking close to the spot Raef had claimed for himself, but, though she had deposited the borrowed cloak on Raef’s pack when he had stepped away to relieve his bladder, she did not emerge.
Sleep came with devastating swiftness, overwhelming his exhausted spirit and body with ease. He fought it for a moment, straining to keep his eyelids from closing, desperate to stand watch until Siv and Vakre returned, but he succumbed, head tilted down to his chest, blanket settled loosely over his legs, his torso cradled in the split trunk of a two-pronged birch.
The dreams came later, dragging Raef from oblivion. He saw his father standing in the prow of a small fishing boat, saw the boat rock as his uncle was thrown over the side, saw Dainn suck water into his lungs, but most of all he saw his father watching Dainn slip beneath the surface. Again and again the scene played. Sometimes his father watched with horror, but sometimes that face that Raef knew so well was still and grim and there was satisfaction in Einarr’s eyes as he became the heir to the seat in the Vestrhall.
The struggle changed, though, and in time the faces of his uncle and father were replaced with faces Raef could not name, though he was sure they were familiar to him. They were brothers, too, he knew somehow, and he watched, as a wolf watches, from a distance as the brothers fought. Weapons were discarded as the men exchanged vicious, bloody blows, and Raef knew this was a long-simmering feud that would end only in death. When one of the brothers had pinned the other down, kneeling on his throat and chest, he brandished a sputtering, sparking torch and it was then, as the flickering flames were held to the restrained brother’s hair, that Raef knew these men and their story. He watched, unable to intervene, unable to look away as the brothers Kell-thor and Ulflaug, long-dead ancestors of Vannheim immortalized in the carved wood of the chair in the Vestrhall, broke every bond of blood and brotherhood between them. Kell-thor heaved Ulflaug off his chest, his muscle-bound arms straining, his hair blazing, and in the scramble that followed, it was Ulflaug who was caught by a wild blow to his jaw. He sprawled in the dirt and Kell-thor sprang upon him, his fingers scrabbling for the knife he had abandoned moments before. Raef saw the knife descend. He heard Ulflaug scream.
But the scream was Isolf and Raef was removing his cousin’s lungs with his blood-slick hands. Isolf was bent at a grotesque, ghastly angle, bones piercing his skin all over his convulsing body. And he would not stop screaming. Desperate to silence him, Raef wanted to end his cousin’s suffering but he could not find the knife that would allow him to slit Isolf’s throat and bring him peace. Instead, he began to stuff the lungs back into the cavity of Isolf’s chest, only they would not fit and he lost his grip and the red, pulsing organs slipped from his hands, and still Isolf screamed.
Silence.
Raef took a breath and saw that he was alone in darkness. All was still and quiet and he knew this was all that would exist after the nine worlds came to ruin, after the great wolf Fenrir swallowed Odin Allfather and Black Surt’s fires burned out.
A flash of lightning split the darkness above Raef’s head and out of that sudden, painful brightness swooped a bird of black and white, its feathers gleaming in Thor’s white fire
. A swift. He knew the bird. He had seen it before. And as Raef was drawn from his dreams, woken by a hand on his shoulder, he could hear the words spoken by a young boy, words of hope that defied everything the Norns had carved into Yggdrasil’s bark.
“The swift knows the way,” Raef said, waking, opening his eyes, finding Vakre hunched over him. His relief at seeing the son of Loki was shadowed by the words the boy Anuleif had spoken and for a moment he could not shake them away.
Vakre frowned. “What did you say?”
Raef shook his head, dispelling the last dreamthreads. “I dreamed of,” he paused, for the dreams had shown him much, “of Anuleif.” He told Vakre of the last part of his dream, of the lightning and the bird, just as they had appeared on the bald top of Old Troll, the hill in the northern part of Vannheim where Ailmaer Wind-footed had searched for golden apples and found only an empty cave. “I did not remember it then, but Anuleif said the swift knows the way. That bird I saw, spawned by the lightning strike, it was a swift.”
He could see that Vakre did not understand, and he did not blame him, for Raef himself hardly knew what he was saying and he was only beginning to grasp at the stray threads in his mind. He did not know what would unravel when he pulled. Raef shook his head again and cast aside the blanket. He stood and blew warm air on his hands.
“You offered Siv your sword,” Raef said. His toes tingled as the blood rushed back into them.
“Her sister’s death lies with me. I had to.”
“And yet here you are.”
