by T L Greylock
Many faces were missing. Engvorr the ship builder and his sons. Yorkell the silent captain who could not grow a beard. And still others who had made their homes inside the shelter of the Vestrhall’s walls.
A cask of mead was brought to the steps and cups were passed until each man, woman, and child shared a drop in remembrance of the fallen, and then the crowd faded back into the night.
Fifteen
The early dawn light found Raef at the shore of the fjord. It slipped across the water in streaks of silver and gold and danced along the shoreline, nipping at Raef’s toes before racing onward. A pair of gulls wheeled overhead, searching the waters for fish beguiled to the surface by the sun.
Raef sat on a boulder, flat and smooth across the top and marbled through with bolts of deep red stone. For him, it was a different morning, one that seemed far away and long ago, a morning like this one. Siv had perched on the same rock and waited for the ice bear to come to the fjord to drink. He could see her smile, see the way the sunlight brightened her hair, see the peace and joy she felt in that simple moment.
Sleep had eluded Raef in the few hours before the dawn. His chamber was as he had left it, for Isolf had claimed the lord’s chamber, but Raef had not lingered there, choosing instead to begin the work of cleaning the hall. One by one, he dragged the bodies through the carved doors, heaping them high at the base of the stone steps. He collected the refuse from Isolf’s final feast and threw it in the rubbish pit to be burned. And then he sluiced bucket after bucket of water over the bloodstained floors.
When sounds of life came from the passages and chambers adjoining the hall, Raef knew the servants were stirring and so he slipped away in search of further solitude.
It was only later, with the rising sun and the memory of Siv warming him, that Raef at last began to feel relief. It was done. Once a funeral pyre was built and burnt to send Rufnir and the others to Valhalla, all that remained was bringing death to Isolf.
**
Isolf had been stripped to the waist and he shivered now in sight of gods and men. The bare, rocky hilltop faced the sea and the winter wind bore down on the gathering without mercy. Waves crashed against rock below them, filling the air with the sharp smell of salt spray, and beyond the shore, the grey sea was spotted with shafts of sunlight that pierced the dull clouds.
Raef stepped close to Isolf, whose skin was prickled with the cold. “Tell me, Isolf, of Siv’s fate.”
“Will you grant me an easier death if I do?” Isolf bore a tattoo on his chest of a bear, a reminder of his ancestry. The blue ink stood out against his pale skin.
“No. But you can go to your death with a clear heart if you speak.”
Isolf’s face twisted in a grimace and he spat at the ground at Raef’s feet. “So weak. So sentimental. You were never fit to rule here.” Dvalarr jerked the ropes that bound Isolf’s hands and growled a warning, but Isolf went on. “I earned this hall. You do not know what it is to be born in isolation, hidden away from the world and forced to scratch out a reputation, a name for myself, when it ought to have been my birthright as the only worthy descendent of Tyrlaug.”
“No, Isolf. You earned this death.”
“Please, cousin,” Isolf said as he was forced to his knees, his defiance turning to panic. A rope around each of his wrists ended in a loop and, though Isolf struggled, Dvalarr’s strong grip forced him to extend his arms and the loops were hooked on a pair of sturdy, forked branches that had been driven into the frozen ground and wedged there with piles of small rocks.
His pleas were lost on Raef, and so Isolf began to thrash against the bonds that held him, his face twisting with fear and snarling hatred.
“You will defile yourself if you shed the blood we share,” Isolf shouted, his voice whipped across the hilltop by the wind. “The gods will curse you.”
Raef removed his heavy fur cloak and the thick woolen tunic until he stood before Isolf in breeches and a thin woven shirt. He began to roll up his sleeves, never taking his eyes from Isolf.
Isolf strained against the ropes. “You will answer for this when you reach Valhalla. I will kill you with every rising sun.” The watching crowd drew back from Isolf’s fury, but Raef stepped close and leaned in so that he might whisper in Isolf’s ear.
“This is all that shall pass between us, cousin. It is not my fate to see you in Valhalla. You will never have a chance at eternal retribution.”
Isolf pulled away and looked at Raef with new dread. Raef stood straight once more and drew his chosen knife, a long-bladed thing.
“The Valkyries will shun you, Isolf. The Allfather will not have you when I am through. I mean to make you scream. All men know that he who screams while facing the blood eagle will never sit at Odin’s table.”
Isolf bared his teeth and clamped his mouth shut and Raef could see him shudder with the force of it.
Raef stepped behind Isolf and gripped the other man’s chin, forcing him to look out at the cold, indifferent sea.
“Look your last upon the world.”
The knife sank into Isolf’s back, near the base of his spine. His right hand still holding tight to Isolf’s neck, Raef ripped up through flesh, dragging the blade with tender slowness up and up until he had carved open the length of Isolf’s back, exposing white bone. Under his grasp, Isolf writhed and twitched, but his mouth remained closed.
Raef, his hand slick with blood, traded his knife for an axe, then shifted his right hand to Isolf’s shoulder and brought the axe down with a swift, short hack, severing the first rib from Isolf’s spine. Isolf lurched against the ropes, his weight sagging more and more as Raef worked up the spine, the ribs cracking with ease under the sharp steel. When he reached Isolf’s shoulders, he reversed direction and did the same on the other side. When he had finished, Raef flung the axe to the ground, reached into the wound with his bare hands, and began to bend the bones backward out of Isolf’s back, opening up the cavity of Isolf’s chest. Some broke off clean in his hands, snapping with horrific noises that had more than one witness shuddering at the sight. Others splintered and held, the jagged shards of bone jutting out of the skin at terrible angles.
The scream came when Raef shoved his hands inside the ruin of Isolf’s core and found the lungs nestled there. Isolf’s head snapped up, the cords of his neck bulged, and his voice ripped unbidden out from between his teeth, and Raef could feel the agony throbbing through him.
Raef drew forth one lung with both his hands, felt it move in his palms, felt Isolf’s life beat against his skin as the man trembled beneath him. Raef placed the lung gently on Isolf’s shoulder blade and then returned for the second one and set it opposite the first. There they pulsed and then went still and Isolf died.
Raef stared at the bloody work his hands had done and at the crimson gore that had dripped to his elbows. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath and knew satisfaction. Not triumph. But satisfaction ran through his veins unlike any he had ever known and with the exhalation of that breath, he released all the anxiety that had gnawed at him, all the anger that had burned within, all the grief over the loss of so many.
Raef dipped his forearms into a waiting bucket of water and scrubbed off the congealing blood. Dvalarr waited with his cloak and tunic, but Raef knelt first before Isolf, whose weight now hung fully from the wooden supports. His face had slackened at the moment of death, but the terror and pain were still there, and Raef was sure he saw something like shame, for in the moment that he screamed, Isolf would have known his fate. When he stood, Raef looked to Dvalarr and Vakre.
“Leave him for whatever scavengers will claim him.”
Raef lingered on the hilltop as those who had gathered to watch the execution began the descent through the forested hills and returned to the Vestrhall. The wind had grown faint, as though the savage gusts had been sated by the blood spilled there, and he watched the ever-changing sea, the shifting colors and shadows, as he waited for the last footsteps and subdued voices to fade away.
When at last there was silence, Raef turned away from the view and saw that Vakre was still there, as he had known he would be.
Raef gestured to Isolf’s corpse. “Is Vannheim avenged?”
“Only you can decide if Isolf’s life was payment enough for what he did.”
Raef thought for a moment. “For the lord of Vannheim, it is enough.”
“And for Raef Skallagrim?”
“It will never be enough,” Raef said, thinking of Siv, of Finnolf, Rufnir, and Uhtred of Garhold, and all the others who had died because of Isolf’s treachery.
“Death does not bring life, Raef,” Vakre said. His voice was gentle, his eyes shadowed with his own private sorrow.
Raef sighed. “I know.”
To the west, the sunlight shattered the cloak of clouds, spilling over the surface of the grey sea, but there on the rocky hill, snow began to fall.
“Come,” Vakre said. “They will be waiting for you.”
Raef nodded, but they had not gone far when a rustle of wings drew Raef’s gaze up to the bare branches of an ash tree. Two black ravens had just come in to land. They snapped their beaks at each other as they shuffled their wings and feet, but then they grew still save for their black eyes.
Raef exchanged a glance with Vakre, wondering why the Allfather’s ravens followed him so persistently. One raven croaked then took to the air, the other waited, staring at Raef, then followed its brother. But the second flapped once, twice, and then plummeted to the earth.
It was dead before it landed, Raef knew, and still he watched it for some sign of life, not daring to believe that one of Odin’s ravens was dead. The creature was even more massive when spread out on the snow, one black wing stretched wide, the other tucked close to the body. The eyes stared up at Raef still, but they were unseeing now and held only darkness in their glassy depths.
Raef looked to Vakre, whose face mirrored the muddle of emotions that churned in Raef’s belly. Then Vakre knelt and stroked the glossy feathers of the bird’s head.
“Your watch is done, friend,” Vakre murmured. The fire that spread from Vakre’s fingers took hold of the raven’s tail feathers first, and for a moment Raef could imagine the bird soaring once more, tail blazing, but then the flames smothered the raven’s body, burning hot and fast and reducing it to ash in a moment.
“How long do you think we have?” Raef asked as the smoke curled up and away on the air.
“Not long. The death of Odin’s ravens heralds the coming battle.” Vakre shivered, but not from cold, and Raef could see a fleeting shadow of loathing pass across his face. “My father is pleased.”
**
They feasted that night in remembrance of the dead. The villagers and those who served in the Vestrhall filled only half of the hall’s long tables, but when they followed Raef’s lead and raised their glasses and their voices and hailed the dead, there was strength and gladness in them, the sharp edges of sorrow softened by solidarity and mead.
Word of Raef’s return had spread outside the walls and by the time the second cask of mead was opened, men who made their homes in the first ring of hills around the Vestrhall had joined them, bringing bright faces and good cheer and freshly butchered venison. A few had brought their older children as well and in time the hall swelled with laughter. Raef drank and ate and laughed with them and felt a measure of peace.
He honored those who had made the journey from the eagle’s nest with words and riches, bestowing arm rings and jeweled belts and fine cloth from the Vestrhall’s stores. He praised Eyvind and the others from Axsellund, spoke of Torleif’s loyalty, of Visna’s courage. The Valkyrie was much admired. She had replaced the gown of gold and sunsets, ruined in the fight in the hall, with simpler, borrowed clothes, but she was still a vision, radiating strength and poise, and the crowd gasped and murmured in awe as Raef told her story.
“I am a poor skald,” Raef told Visna after.
Visna laughed. “A dog would have howled better, but it will do.”
“And I have kept my word. They know your name and will not soon forget it.”
Visna had smiled at that, her pale skin flushing with pleasure, but Raef was glad to see that she also took pleasure in Dvalarr’s humble courtesies toward her and in the laughter of the children as they chased the dogs here and there.
Eyvind came to him late in the night, when the mead had soaked into the skin of many and more than a few pairs of eyes were fighting off the shroud of sleep. The hall was filled now with the noise of quiet contentment as the warrior from Axsellund came to sit at Raef’s side in the place vacated by Dvalarr.
“Lochauld wishes to make his oath to you,” Eyvind said. He spoke of the youngest of the surviving Axsellund warriors, a blonde bearded youth who was quick with a spear.
Raef was quiet for a moment, then nodded. “I would be glad to have him.”
“Svor and Engred wish to return to Axsellund. They have families there.” Eyvind seemed about to say more but he shifted in his chair and held his tongue.
“They shall have whatever they require to make the journey,” Raef said, eyes on Eyvind, who gazed across the hall. He waited but still Eyvind hesitated. “And you? What is your wish?”
At last Eyvind looked at Raef. “I, too, will return.” Raef said nothing, sensing that Eyvind had more to say. “Whatever comes of Torleif’s death, whether the lady Oddrun has a boy child, the bravest boy since Ketill Kringa himself, or a girl, as strong and wise as Frigg in Asgard, whether this child can cling to Torleif’s legacy or a warrior rises up to claim what is ripe for the taking, I owe it to Torleif to be there. It is my home.”
“Then you will not make a claim for yourself.”
Eyvind shook his head, confirming Raef’s assumption. “Ruling is not in my nature. But more than that, I do not think I could bear to sit where he sat.”
“Then I wish you well, Eyvind. Know that you are always welcome in Vannheim, that you will always have a friend here.”
Eyvind nodded his thanks and pushed the chair back from the table. He signaled for the other three Axsellund warriors to come forward. Svor and Engred gave thanks, which Raef gave them in return, and Lochauld took a knee, eager to bind himself to his new lord. Raef was about to raise him up, to say that could wait for another time, but the great doors at the far end of the hall creaked open and a gust of cold air that made the closest fire cower brought Raef to his feet instead, a warning beating in his heart.
The figure in the doorway was tall and narrow, all sharp angles and gaunt bones even under the weight and bulk of a heavy furred cloak, but so steeped in the shadows of night still that Raef could not make out a face. The hall had gone quiet and it seemed to Raef that he could hear the smoke swirling off the flames of the torches and the fires.
“Hold, stranger,” Raef called out, breaking the silence. “Give me your name or you may come no further.”
“Ever do you greet me with harsh words, Raef Skallagrim. Are we not friends yet?” The voice thrummed into Raef’s bones, smooth and strong and tinged with amusement. It was a voice not soon forgotten.
The Far-Traveled reached up and pulled back his hood, then stepped into the light of the hall. The distance between them seemed to dissolve into nothing, for Finndar Urdson’s blue eyes were piercing and forceful and not to be ignored.
“I have learned to be wary of those who claim to be my friend,” Raef said. He nodded at Dvalarr. His boots thumping across the floor, the Crow strode to the Far-Traveled’s side and searched him with rough hands. The Far-Traveled endured this without complaint, indeed, without removing his gaze from Raef.
When Dvalarr finished, his hands coming up empty, Finndar spread his hands before him, palms up, a beseeching, questioning gesture from most men that looked far more like a demand when expressed by the half god.
“You are welcome to the Vestrhall, Finndar Urdson.”
The Far-Traveled smiled and began to pace the length of the hall, coming to a halt when he reac
hed the high table.
“It seems I have interrupted a joyous occasion, forgive me.”
“What little joy you see has been cruelly bought with blood and sacrifice.”
The Far-Traveled’s face betrayed nothing. “Then what I have to say can wait.” His words and his eyes were at odds, the one meant to put the villagers at ease, the other, fixed on Raef, flashed with warning.
Raef walked around the table, seizing an empty cup and filling it with mead from a jug as he went. At this gesture, conversation returned to the hall as men and women whispered among themselves and Raef was glad to feel the weight of fewer eyes upon him.
Raef handed the cup to the Far-Traveled. “A drink, to revive your limbs after long travel.”
Finndar took a long swallow and handed it back to Raef. “A drink, for the king named in Vannheim.”
This caused a stir as Raef, too, took a drink, draining the cup. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then called for Ferrolf, a man skilled with the flute, to play music and take minds away from the Far-Traveled’s presence.
Three songs later, Raef could bear it no longer and he slipped from the hall, taking a passage lined with heavy tapestries and little light. After rounding a corner, Raef halted and waited until the footsteps of Finndar Urdson caught up to him. In the dim light, the Far-Traveled’s blue eyes grew grey, as a sea in a storm.
“What brings you to my home?”
The Far-Traveled studied Raef for a long moment. Behind them, the hall was a blur of noise, the distinct sounds of Ferrolf’s flute melting with voices and laughter.
