by T L Greylock
“Your leader?” This from Vakre.
Siv studied them for a moment. “Come, follow me.” She turned and did not look back to see if they were coming. Raef and Vakre exchanged a look and followed.
“Do you think she means to hunt us?” Vakre asked, grinning, as they ascended a small hill.
“I can hear you,” Siv called over her shoulder. She didn’t sound the least bit offended to Raef’s ears.
“I never thought you could not,” Vakre replied. They traversed a short ridge, the trees thinner here, and then descended again. Here birches dominated the forest, their white bark and yellowing leaves creating a golden glow. A twang came from behind Raef and he spun on his heel to see Vakre lowering his bow. “Looks like you owe me your finest drinking cup, friend.” He trotted off to retrieve his rabbit. Raef scowled but didn’t protest; he was too curious about where they were headed.
Raef soon began to hear voices up ahead and it wasn’t long before they reached a clearing. Whatever he had expected, it wasn’t the scene before him. The clearing was full of women, warriors all, and as he and Vakre passed out of the trees, activity gradually came to a stop as all eyes turned to examine the intruders.
“Maybe we died and the Valkyries have come to collect us.” Vakre, grinning, murmured so only Raef could hear.
“You bring strangers amongst us?”
The voice sent a shiver down Raef’s spine. The owner of it stood ten paces from him, arms crossed, defiance in her eyes. For all Raef knew, she might have been a hair’s breadth from his nose; he could see nothing but her face and the dark hair that framed it.
Siv snorted in laughter next to him, shaking the spell. “I was bored. They were bored. Game was scarce.”
The dark-haired woman contemplated Raef and Vakre for a moment and then beckoned them forward. “I would have news of your gathering. How many lords stand?”
“I will not answer until you tell me your name and purpose here,” Raef said.
The woman’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
Vakre stirred beside Raef for the first time. “If I can name you,” he said, taking a step forward, “then you must tell us your purpose here.” The woman made no move of agreement, but Vakre continued, heedless. “Your swords are good steel, forged by masters, and yet your cloth is poor and supplies poorer. An unobservant eye would glance, name you a shieldmaiden, and he would not be wrong. An eye that cared to notice might go further and judge from the style of your belt that the southern lands are your home. But your speech, though practiced, marks you as something else entirely.” Vakre circled behind the woman. “You are the foreigner from over the mountains. You fought beside Yannolf of Wayhold last winter. You repelled those strange southern ships two summers before that. Your name travels on quick tongues. You are Eira.”
The dark-haired woman said nothing, but Siv, smiling, answered for her. “Well done. Perhaps I will send you back with one of my rabbits as reward.”
The woman named Eira finally spoke. “Come.” She beckoned them to a tent and disappeared behind the flap. The interior was sparse, a few blankets and furs for warmth but little else in the way of belongings. Eira indicated that they should sit and then she joined them on the furs. “I am what you say, though what you say is not entirely true.” Siv entered, bringing cups of clear water, and Eira took a long drink before continuing. “Four winters ago, I was found in the mountains to the far east, those that border these lands, those that few venture into and none cross over. I spoke a language different from yours, and so those who found me named me foreigner and decided I must have crossed over from the east. I myself cannot say for I do not remember.”
“You were found?” Raef asked.
“Yes. Death had nearly claimed me. Whoever I was and wherever I had come from, I no longer knew. But I was found with sword, dagger, and shield, so I knew one thing. I was a warrior. And so I am still.”
“And these women here with you?”
“Shieldmaidens, mostly, who have left their homes or been cast out. We offer our blades to those who need them and will pay.”
“If you had no memory, how did you come by your name?” This from Vakre.
“It was given to me,” Eira said. She did not elaborate.
“You asked of our gathering,” Raef said. “If you fight among us in the shield wall, why are you not there to share your voice?”
“The Great-Belly did not ask me to come. And I will not grovel,” Eira said, chin raised in defiance.
Siv spoke up. “Not all lords will welcome us or our blades.”
Raef traced the shape of Eira’s nose with his eyes. Then the curve of her mouth, the line of her jaw. He did not wish to look away and she did not flinch from his examination. “There are twelve banners hanging in the Great-Belly’s hall,” he said, his eyes now locked with hers. “You could see them with your own eyes, if you were bold enough.”
Eira’s nostrils flared. “Do not insult me.”
Raef was enjoying provoking her fiery demeanor and might have said more, but the tent flap was raised. “A horn has sounded in the wood,” a voice called in from the sunlight.
“Surely that is for us,” Vakre said.
Raef frowned. “No horn was to have sounded until the hunt was complete. It is only mid-day. We should return.” He stood and strode out of the tent with Vakre at his heels.
“I will come.” Eira’s voice rang out from behind him and he spun to face her. He nodded once, now eager to leave and all too aware that something grave must have happened for the horns to sound with the sun so high.
Rather than retrace their steps, he and Vakre headed directly east to take the shortest route out of the forest. A small group formed behind them as Eira hastily summoned Siv and three other women to gather horses and join them. The trees were thin and the ground solid; they made good time and soon left the woods behind. They were some distance south of where they had entered the forest, but a pair of servants waiting with the horses soon spotted them and came to meet them. No other horses or warriors were in sight and the servants confirmed that Raef and Vakre were the last.
The sun was high and fierce as they raced across the plains toward the fortress of Balmoran and the glimmering tents surrounding the walls.
“There, there,” Vakre shouted, pointing to where a swarm of men were gathered along the river. They pulled the horses up and dismounted, but could see nothing in the crowd. Raef pushed his way inside the fringe.
“A boar, I heard,” said one man.
“No, a bear,” said another. “Ripped him in half.”
“Who?” Raef asked, but no one seemed to know.
“Silence!” This was bellowed from deep inside the throng and the voices around Raef obeyed. “We must find him. Skallagrim! Are you here?”
Raef tensed at the sound of his family name and looked for his father in the crowd. No movement, no answering voice. The silence seemed to be crushing the sky down upon him.
“Here. I am here.” The voice was his own, distant but steady. He knew now what lay at the center of the crowd. The men in front of him parted and he passed through them.
Einarr Skallagrim’s body was large even in death. He was stretched out, limbs splayed, a great, gaping hole in his belly. A spear lay beside him, splintered in two.
“Will he go to Valhalla?” Raef heard himself ask.
“It is a certainty. He died with spear and sword in hand.” This was the same voice that had bellowed earlier and Raef looked up to see Brandulf Hammerling holding out his father’s sword. Raef took it.
“And the boar?”
“Slaughtered.” The Hammerling gripped Raef’s shoulder. “You will feast on it tonight.” The Hammerling detached a skin from his belt. “I drink to the new lord of Vannheim,” he shouted. He took a long swallow and then thrust the skin at Raef who gulped down the remaining contents. The crowd roared its approval.
Seven
The bleary, red-shot eyes of Hymar of Grudenhavn stared up at R
aef without a hint of recognition to brighten them. Disgusted, Raef flung Hymar back to the furs that were soaked in ale and piss. Hymar grunted, vomited, and drank some more. The half-naked woman, barely visible in the dim, shuttered tent, did not stir.
Raef stepped out into the sunlight once more, shutting the foul smells inside the tent but taking his rage with him. There was no doubt that Hymar was incapable of wielding a spear, much less riding a horse to join the hunt, and certainly not skewering an armed Einarr Skallagrim. And yet it had taken a great deal of Raef’s self control not to cut the other man’s throat and let his blood mingle with his other bodily fluids.
He closed his eyes, though the sun was still bright behind his eyelids, still staring down with a harsh countenance. And in the red darkness, the image of Einarr’s body bloomed, forcing Raef’s eyes open once more.
The men spoke of a boar. The Hammerling promised Raef the finest portion from the beast’s carcass, which had been dragged, bloody, from the woods. Even now the wood for the pyre was being gathered. But here and there a furtive glance, a whispered word, seemed to shout at Raef the truth he already felt in his bones. It was not a boar tusk that had made Einarr Skallagrim a corpse. It was a spear.
Raef dared not speak his thoughts out loud, not yet, not even to those his father had trusted most. And so he had slipped away from the drink and the shouting and he had gone in search of Hymar, certain the lord of Grudenhavn had sought a most cruel revenge for his son’s injuries. The sight of Hymar had frozen all those thoughts, had sent Raef’s head spinning, had needled doubt into Raef’s certainty.
There was still Erlaug. Breathing deeply, Raef searched the deserted Grudenhavn tents until at last he found Hymar’s son. The father had been too drunk to know Raef, but not so the son. Erlaug’s lips curled back from his teeth in a snarl at the first sight of Raef, and he tried to rise from his bed of furs, but he got no further than one knee before he collapsed, screaming.
“Did you murder my father?” Raef bellowed, on his hands and knees now, grasping at Erlaug’s shoulders and shaking him. “Did you?”
“Raef.” It was Vakre’s voice and Raef scrambled to his feet, backing away from Erlaug’s writhing body, aware that his eyes brimmed with salty tears. “He cannot answer.” Vakre stepped close to Erlaug, whose pain seemed dimmed by a sudden fear. “He can scream, but his tongue will never form words again.” Vakre pressed a finger close to one of the arrow wounds on Erlaug’s bare chest. “It burns, no? It chokes and it freezes and it burns.” Straightening, Vakre looked at Raef. “He will soon lose the ability to eat. His bowels will loosen and he will soil himself. Repeatedly. The wounds will eat at him as fiercely as Jörmungand gnaws his own tail. And then he will die.”
Vakre drew aside the tent flap and Raef, without a word, passed through it. Someday he would ask Vakre what he had done to Erlaug, but for that moment it was enough to know that Erlaug would die and that Hymar would live to see it, and know that his line was broken. There was only one son in Grudenhavn.
Raef walked, without aim, he thought, though his feet carried him to the place where Einarr’s body had rested, where Raef had closed the staring eyes. Vakre shadowed his steps, though he waited at a distance, as though knowing Raef would speak when he was ready.
“It was not a boar tusk that ripped my father’s body apart. I am not the only one to see it, but I am the only one who will say it. This was spear-work and treachery.”
“But not treachery borne out of Grudenhavn,” Vakre said.
“No.” Raef took his eyes off the grass, stained now with dried blood. “Unless Hymar was not bold enough to do the deed himself, and sent a murderer to the hunt.”
“In his ire, Hymar forbade his men from joining the hunt. They frothed at this, but they obeyed,” Vakre said.
“You know this?” Raef asked. “How?”
“If Hymar or his foul offspring had murdered your father, the fault would be mine. I let you take responsibility for what I did last night. I had to know.”
“I wounded Erlaug and killed two of his men. Even if the fight had ended in that instant before you loosed an arrow, he would still curse my name and seek reprisal.”
A corner of Vakre’s mouth turned up. “Fair enough.” The hint of a grin vanished. “What will you do?”
“Avenge him.”
“Good.” Vakre clapped a hand on Raef’s shoulder. “Now, come drink with me.”
The funeral pyre burned long and bright under the stars that night. Sparks flew close to where Raef stood vigil, but he did not flinch away. The smell of burning flesh had nearly vanished and the warriors had long turned to the casks of ale and mead to celebrate Einarr Skallagrim’s journey to Valhalla.
“A good fire.” Vakre had approached quietly in the dark and Raef, night-blind from the flames, had not seen him coming. He only nodded in response. “The gods will see him and welcome him.”
Raef could only nod again, for fear of losing the fragile grip he had on himself. His grief burned hot in his gut and rage swirled in his heart. He longed for vengeance, but knew not how to achieve it. He wanted to be sick; he wanted to scream his defiance for all to hear and marshal a band of warriors to walk the path of vengeance with him. He yearned to be away from this place, to breathe air that did not smell of his father’s burning flesh, to be alone. But most of all he wished his father might return from Valhalla and say goodbye.
But his duty was beside the pyre and there would be no goodbye, and so he stood, still and straight, until Vakre moved on.
The ale flowed freely outside the Vannheim tents that night after the fire burned away. Warriors, strangers to Raef, came to pay their respects as he downed cup after cup with Vakre. Siv joined them but sat quietly and apart from the others; Raef could feel her watching him even as his senses dulled. And then there was Eira. She seemed to glide toward him, her silence worn like a cloak about her. It took only a glance at her eyes to know her mind, for it was in Raef’s mind also. She took his hand with no words, no change in expression, and led him to his tent.
**
The river water was clear, cold, and utterly startling as Raef poured a bowlful over his head. He closed his eyes, letting the water stream down his face in rivulets, and breathed deeply. Memories of the night were dreamlike in his mind, but through the haze he had never forgotten that his father was dead and it was the first thing that entered his mind when his eyes opened that morning. But as he stood naked in the river, skin prickling in the cool morning air, those same thoughts passed through his mind with new clarity. He was the lord of Vannheim now.
Raef let the current flow around him for a moment longer, then washed and dried himself. His father’s captains, his captains now, were waiting for him.
They met among the trees, for it seemed to Raef a safer place to speak freely than in the tent city. Vakre joined them, at Raef’s request, and the captains, if they questioned the presence of an outsider, were too well trained to show it.
“What do we do now, lord?” Thorald spoke what was on everyone’s mind. “The men are wondering who we should speak for at the gathering.”
“I cannot stand in my father’s place, as you know,” Raef began, “but I would not even if I could. This gathering is tainted, and I will keep my distance from it.” He glanced around at the men facing him and then continued. “It was no boar that killed my father. This was done by men. Who among you was in his hunting party?”
“I was, lord,” said the youngest of the captains, Finnolf Horsebreaker. “But I was far away when your father died. Forgive me for that.”
“There is nothing to forgive. Tell me, who was he hunting with?”
“He entered the forest with Uhtred of Garhold. There were many warriors near them; I could not say who they were. Last I saw, the Great-Belly was with him also.”
“Who was with my father when he died? Surely someone had to tell the tale of the boar.”
“Uhtred said they had been tracking a boar and separated so as to
surprise the beast. He heard shouts and retraced his steps to find your father already dead. He said it was only a moment later that four warriors appeared dragging the dying boar, saying they had witnessed the attack and had chased the animal down.” Finnolf paused. “They were the Hammerling’s men, lord.”
Raef’s heart began to beat faster but he kept his voice calm. “And then?”
“The horn was sounded. I helped to carry the body,” Finnolf said.
“And the Hammerling? What of him?”
“I saw him only after it was over.”
Raef mulled on this for a moment and then addressed the group. “Tell the men they can go to the hall tonight. Let them eat the Great-Belly’s food and drink his ale. But tell them they must still their voices. I do not trust this gathering and until I know more, we will support no one. And I want a night watch set around our tents. Whatever treachery is afoot, it is far from over, I fear. We will not be caught sleeping.”
The captains dispersed to carry out Raef’s orders. Vakre, who had been sharpening a knife and now threw it into a tree trunk, said, “Do you believe Brandulf Hammerling is behind this?” He retrieved the blade.
“It seems the best place to start.” He explained to Vakre what the Hammerling had proposed to his father. “If he thought my father would not agree to the marriage, perhaps he felt he had to rid himself of Vannheim altogether.”
“But so soon? These things bear thinking on. Surely he would have given your father more time to make his choice.”
Raef shrugged. “Maybe he never meant for my father to choose.”
“Will you confront him?”
“And say what? No, but I need to find the men Uhtred saw with the boar.”
“I will do that,” Vakre said quickly. “Better you seem,” Vakre paused, “content.”
Raef wanted to argue but he saw the wisdom in Vakre’s words. “Agreed. There is a ridge high above us. Follow it east and you will find a circle of broken pillars. Meet me there tonight, once everyone has gone to the hall. Bring me one of these boar-killers.”
