by T L Greylock
“Because you are a man, content with these things. You do not rise above.”
“Rise above to what? To a cold and callous thing who looks only to the stars and the gods? The stars are beautiful and I take joy in them, but they are far away and the earth and the growing things and the cool mountain water, they are near.” Raef watched Visna’s face in the moonlight as the Valkyrie struggled to make sense of his words. “You have already lost what you were,” he went on, and he could see the pain his words caused her even though he spoke gently. “Remember it, cherish it, be proud of it, but do not be disdainful of what you have now. It is all you have.”
Visna was quiet for a long time, but the troubled emotions that had clouded her face seemed to have faded.
“I have seen men who wish to rise above,” Raef said, letting his thoughts slip away to a burning lake where men had died with ice and fire. “One such was the Palesword and he was willing to tear apart this world to achieve his desire for fame in the eyes of the Allfather, to impose his will on the realm of men. He woke a terrible host that sowed death and destruction in its wake. Men should seek battle-fame, men should seek wisdom and a place at the long table in Valhalla, but men must not forget what it is to plant a seed and watch it grow.”
Their eyes met and for the span of two deep breaths that seared Raef’s chest, he thought he saw a glimmer of understanding there, but then he let himself lie flat on the ground once more.
“That woman, what did you want with her?” Raef asked.
Visna was quiet for a long time. “I must find the one who will take my place in Asgard, who will ride with my sisters.” Another pause, this one filled with a heavy sigh. “When I saw her, I was sure it was her. I wanted to rip her heart out and I wanted to see the sword burn with light once more when she held it. I am not sure what I would have done had I had her within my grasp.”
“And now?”
“She is not the one. I do not know whether to be glad or grieved that I must continue to carry this burden.”
Raef closed his eyes but Visna’s voice came to him again out of the darkness.
“What will you do?”
“Survive.”
Raef slept and the dreams that had plucked at the strings of his mind returned, this time with the weight of a heavy, suffocating snow. He was outside the walls of the Vestrhall, the smell of ashes sharp in his nostrils. There was blood everywhere, and on Raef most of all. Crows settled on the corpses, pecking half-frozen flesh. He tried to scare them off, but they stared at him with bottomless black eyes. And then he saw her. Siv, sprawled under the dark sky, eyes staring at nothing, her hair caked with the drying, sticky blood of other men. He reached for her but the crows drove him back, sharp talons and outstretched wings beating him away. He tore the head off of one and the rest, screaming, took to the sky, disappearing on black wings. The other bodies were gone now, only Siv remained. So pale. So empty of the life that had coursed through her. He felt a cold wind on his neck and turned, then staggered back as he saw the labyrinth of Jötunheim open up before him, twisted and cruel, forever bleak. And then he knew he was meant to choose between the punishment of staying beside Siv, so close to her and yet to never see her smile again, or reentering the labyrinth, never to return. He would not leave her again. He stretched out his hand to her cheek, but then he felt the labyrinth pull him in, sucking, reaching, devouring. And then it was gone.
Anuleif appeared, and the boy’s words of the future seemed to fall from the sky like bolts of lightning. Fear made Raef cower, but in time the lightning seemed less monstrous, less deadly, and Raef stepped from his hiding place and let the bolts strike the ground at his feet. And then he knew hope.
When he awoke, it was to shouting and the sun on the horizon. A pair of warriors dragged him to his feet and through the snow, and for a moment Raef was sure he was about to meet Griva’s knife, but then all was quiet and he was let go at the edge of the river. Vakre was given the same treatment. A man waited for them there, but it was not Fengar. He was unknown to Raef and he picked at dirt beneath his fingernails. He wore his hair long and his beard short and from his left ear hung a bead of glass. In the bright morning, it caught the sun. Raef was sure he had never seen him before, but there was something familiar about him, something that only grew more certain when he spoke.
“Lost your taste for battle, Skallagrim? I thought you to be at the Hammerling’s side.”
“I was. As Fengar promised to be.”
The man scowled. “Do not speak of promises. Speak instead the truth, and you might earn an easy death. Why do you skulk about in this corner of Vannheim? What does the Hammerling want with you?
Raef thought quickly, glad to learn that his separation from Brandulf Hammerling was unknown. So too, then, would be his naming as king. “We were sent to treat with Torleif of Axsellund.”
“What then?”
“That was to depend upon the manner of our reception.”
The long-haired man nodded as though Raef had imparted a piece of wisdom, the glass bead dancing with his movement. “Go on.”
“If Torleif agreed to give the Hammerling his oath, we were to remain and gather the Axsellund warriors. If not,” Raef took a stab in the dark, “we were ordered to do the same in Bergoss.”
Again, the man nodded. “Strange that you would make such a journey alone,” he said.
“The Hammerling hoped we might travel undetected.”
“Then he sent no gifts, no treasures to sway the lords he hoped to win?”
“Those were to come later,” Raef said, aware that his lie might unravel at any moment. “We rode swift and light. Speed was our aim.”
“And where were you to meet the Hammerling with your newfound spears?”
Names and places flashed through Raef’s mind, but he abandoned them all and held his tongue lest he betray himself.
“Lost your tongue?” The man cocked his head at Raef and grinned. He was missing a tooth just right of center. “I wager you will sing to us soon enough. But let me ask you one more question, Skallagrim, one question that is not the king’s.” He leaned in close and Raef could smell his foul breath. “Did my cursed brother still draw breath when you left the Hammerling?”
“To answer this, I would need your name,” Raef said.
The man grinned again and the glass bead twinkled. “He calls himself the lord of Kolhaugen, but I am the true lord.”
“Then you are Alvar, twin of Eirik,” Raef said, at last recognizing the hint of Eirik’s voice in the other brother.
Alvar of Kolhaugen spat. “I am Alvar, son of the last king.”
“He lives,” Raef said.
Alvar scowled. “By Odin’s will, not for long.”
“Even in Valhalla, all the pretty women will smile at him and avoid you.” Vakre’s voice was sharp and teasing, a sudden spark that reddened Alvar’s face. The lord of Kolhaugen lashed out, striking Vakre across the cheek. Vakre managed a grin, though Raef could see blood on his tongue. “You must hate him, always the fortunate favorite, beloved by your father, admired by every village girl at the long tables.” Again Alvar’s fist cracked across Vakre’s jaw, but the lord of Kolhaugen did not strike a third time.
Alvar fought to control his anger. “Best not mar that pretty face before Griva gets his hands on you. He likes a clean surface to work on.” Alvar forced a laugh and turned, leaving them alone with their guards.
Vakre spit and ran his tongue over his teeth. “I heard a rumor once that the twins of Kolhaugen were ever at each other’s throats, that Alvar had always loathed his brother and writhed in a stew of jealousy.” Vakre wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Raef could see a smear of blood on the cloth. “Seems the rumor was true.”
“We are not winning any friends, Vakre,” Raef said. “Would you stab a weakened spear at an angry bear?”
Vakre stared at Raef for a moment. Raef saw something distant and wild there. “If I wanted the bear dead, I would.” Vakre blinked and seemed
more himself. “If they are going to kill me, I want them to earn it.”
A chorus of voices reached them and they turned to look east, down the valley. At first, Raef could see nothing, but then he heard horses and more shouting, and soon the river camp was crowded over with new faces. Men had come with the first rays of the sun, traveling through the night to swell Fengar’s numbers. Chief among them was a man the sight of whom made Vakre’s face darken with hatred, for his uncle, Romarr, lord of Finnmark, had come to Vannheim.
Eight
“You. I thought you dead.”
Romarr, lord of Finnmark, had been deep in conversation with a captain when he stopped in his tracks and drew back at the sight of Vakre. In the confusion of the arrival of the new warriors, the prisoners had gone unnoticed at first and Raef was sure he saw a burst of fear, quickly masked, in the lord of Finnmark’s face.
“And wished it, I know,” Vakre said, chin held high, contempt in every line of his face.
“I should bleed you now, right where you stand.” Romarr’s hand twitched to his scabbard, but his feet stayed rooted to the stones. “I should have known I would find you hiding in a useless corner of the world such as this, choosing to save your own skin rather than stand your place in the shield wall.” Only then did Romarr take in Raef’s presence. He barked out a laugh. “And the lost lord of Vannheim with you, nephew. How fitting. I will see to your deaths myself. It is time you joined your mother in Hel.”
Vakre was moving before Raef could react. He did not touch his uncle, but the flames that sprouted from his hand licked at Romarr’s face, causing him to jerk backward, nearly losing his footing. Then Vakre, his hands left unbound from when he had relieved his bladder, grabbed the fur collar of his uncle’s cloak and hauled him in close, singeing Romarr’s thick, dark beard with his flaming hand.
“Would you like to burn, uncle?” Vakre’s voice was soft, soothing, almost wistful. Romarr had eyes only for the tendrils of fire and could not find his words. “I thought not,” Vakre said. Raef was the only one to react, the only one who did not stand in mute shock, and he laid a hand on Vakre’s arm. But a quick glance at Vakre’s face told him the son of Loki was in control. An ocean of anger swelled within, but the surface was calm and unthreatening. It was an unnerving sight.
“You cast her out, ashamed and afraid of your own sister, when all she did was bear a child, a child of your own blood.”
“The gods will curse you, Vakre Lokison,” Romarr shouted, finding his voice at last, spit flying from his mouth.
With a flick of his wrist, Vakre released his uncle, who lurched back, and the flames vanished. Vakre flashed a feral smile and said to any who might listen, “Take care with this one. There is no honest, true bone in his body.”
His voice broke the stillness and the captain Romarr had been speaking with lashed out. A long knife flashed from his belt and another, this one short and brutal, appeared from behind his back. He advanced on Vakre, twirling the short knife, his rugged face cracked open by a cruel smile, but a shout brought him to a halt. It was not Romarr who stopped him, but Fengar, approaching and flanked by the two daughters of Thor.
“The time for their deaths will come, but it is not now,” Fengar said. The captain grunted and, smiling still, lowered his blades. He did not take his eyes from Vakre and Raef felt a twisting in his gut at sight of the eager glint in the knifeman’s expression. Fengar would not look at his prisoners. “Come,” the king said to Romarr, whose fear had turned to rage and reddened his face. “Valdemar, the only eyes I have left to me, will be here soon and we must talk.”
It was some time before Vakre opened his mouth to speak after they were shoved back into their shelter. Visna greeted them with only silence. Raef, his hands newly bound, worked on the fire as best he could, sending a shower of sparks into the air as he stirred it with his boot. He maneuvered a fresh log onto the embers, then sat down to wait. The log was black on one side before the son of Loki unknotted his tongue.
“My uncle never ceases to remind me that my birth made my mother’s life difficult, that she lost everything. I only sought to remind him that he is as much to blame. He treated her like filth. I should have killed him long ago.”
“What stayed your hand?”
“Killing him is what my father would have done. It would have confirmed everything my uncle believed about me. My mother made me understand this. To seek justice for what he did to her, while I still feel in my heart is right, would brand me forever as Loki’s murderous son. I must not be that.”
“The knifeman,” Raef said, “who is he? I do not like him.”
“Nor should you. He is Ulthor Ten-blade, or so he calls himself. He is cruel beyond measure. I was a boy of eight when I learned this. I watched him feed a dog a sausage, then, when the mutt rolled on its back, begging for a belly scratch, Ulthor slid his knife in again and again. More than once I have asked my uncle to rid himself of such a beast, for he knows only malice. My uncle likes to think him a loyal hound, well leashed. He will break the leash, and when he does, Finnmark will suffer for it.”
“He means to kill you,” Raef said.
“He may try.” Vakre snarled his response and Raef felt heat gushing from his friend’s skin. He tensed, thinking the flames might burst out and consume him, but the warmth faded, leaving Raef with a question on his tongue, a question he had delayed asking.
“How long has it been, Vakre, since you no longer needed your father’s cloak?”
Vakre’s gaze darted to Raef’s face and there was surprise hidden there. “You saw? When?” He would not look at Visna, who was watching them carefully, her eyes no longer empty.
“You were not wearing it when you burned the giant.”
Vakre opened his mouth to speak, but he hesitated and Raef heard uncertainty in the silence. “I did not intend for anyone to know. Even you.” Raef waited until Vakre continued. “It was the day the fog blanketed the valley, our first morning in the nest. You went to catch fish and I,” Vakre paused, “I discovered that my skin had become cloak enough.” Vakre looked at Raef. “The flames no longer weaken me as they once did.”
Visna, who had listened in silence, broke in. “Surely a cause to be glad. Many would give much to have such a gift.”
Vakre did not share her enthusiasm. “I feel only dread.”
The early morning sunshine soon vanished behind a thick wall of clouds and the storm was upon them before midday. The valley waited under a boiling, writhing sky, and then the snow fell in sharp, windy bursts that stung Raef’s eyes. He, Vakre, and Visna huddled in their shelter and watched as the world grew white around them.
When the storm broke, shafts of light split through the clouds and Raef crawled from the shelter. The world was even more brilliant than he had imagined. Beyond the close pines, the valley stretched out, awash in glittering snow, and a stiff breeze blew the last, lagging clouds westward, freeing this small patch of the world from the storm’s grasp. Raef drew deep breaths of crisp, cold air, his eyes closed as he listened to the chatter of birds in the high branches. The horses, massed together nearby, stomped their feet and shook their manes, glad to be under the sun once more.
Raef, shutting out the sounds and smells of men, let himself find a moment of joy in the harsh beauty of the world, let himself imagine that Siv stood at his side, her hand in his, a smile on her face, her heart beating in time with the earth.
Raef rubbed his bound wrists against his chest, massaging the cold away as best he could, then went to empty his bladder. Before he had finished, a figure brushed into the corner of his vision and then leaned in close and blew a hot breath into Raef’s ear.
“Should I fetch the girl? She could help you with that.” Ulthor Ten-blade’s breath stank of garlic and rotten teeth but Raef resisted the urge to draw back while fastening his belt as best he could without full use of his hands. “Or perhaps you would prefer to have your friend, Lokison, lend a hand?”
Raef did not rise to the
bait. “Be gone.” He turned away but Ulthor grabbed him and Raef spun around, coming face to face with Ten-blade.
“You think to tell me what to do? I am Ulthor Ten-blade.”
“I know who you are.”
“Ah, has the cursed half god told you? Did he mention my fondness for eyes? Yours are very fine. Perhaps I will take them from you.” The knife was out, twirling in Ulthor’s hand. Raef could see it though he kept his gaze fixed on Ten-blade’s face. At that close distance, the knifeman’s gaze was unsettling, for his eyes were mismatched, one blue, one brown.
Ten-blade laughed, but there was no mirth in it, and then the knife was gone as quickly as it had come and Raef was alone by the river once more.
The storm had delayed the anticipated arrival of Valdemar, and the king’s anxiety at this spread through the camp. Raef heard mutterings about ill luck, about the gods laughing at them, and he saw Griva and Fengar arguing, though the distance was too great to make out their words. They parted with angry gestures that did not go unnoticed by many, but then a long, low note of a horn sounded, racing to them on the swift river, and followed by five riders. As Fengar’s men began to gather, one man slumped and fell from his horse. Three others dismounted and clustered around their companion, but the fifth remained tall and straight in his saddle. He was dark of hair and eye, and his gaze bore down on Fengar. A scar, puckered and pink, ran down the side of his neck, curved around to the front of his chest, and disappeared beneath his cloak. This was Valdemar, the broken man. Raef had heard his name, had wondered why he was called such. Now he wondered how far the scar descended.
