by T L Greylock
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.”
Fengar frowned.
“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.”
“The time for such thoughts is long past, Fengar. You shamed them the moment you stood above the rest in the Great-Belly’s hall, the moment you let a few lords name you king without the consent of the warriors.”
Fengar dropped his gaze, but when he raised it again, Raef saw a measure of acceptance in his face and then the lord of Solheim began to climb from the depths of the ravine.
When he reached the top, taking Raef’s arm to haul himself over the edge, Fengar stripped the fat silver ring from his finger, stroked the band once with his thumb, then placed it with care in Raef’s palm.
“Bryndis was waiting to the south,” Raef said. “Where she went when the fire started I could not say.”
“Then I will go west first,” Fengar began, but Raef shook his head to silence him.
“Do not tell me where you mean to go. I do not wish to know.”
Fengar nodded and then, without another word, he pulled up his hood and turned his back on Raef, who watched him weave through the flame-licked tree trunks until Fengar was out of sight.
“Why did you let him go?” Cilla had watched in silence and her gaze rested on the ring that rested still in Raef’s open palm. He closed his fingers over it and dropped his hand to his side before answering.
“Fengar was ambitious and it pleased him to be named king, but his ambitions were a gentle spring rain compared to the torrential flood that drives some men. Fengar’s fault lay in his lack of will and his inability to rely upon himself, and for that he deserves some of the blame for this war that has ravaged so much of the world. But far greater blame rests on the shoulders of two men, for the war was of their making and Fengar was never more than a tool, wielded as it pleased them.”
Cilla frowned and Raef could see that his answer did not satisfy her.
“Would you have wanted me to kill him?”
Cilla shrugged. “He wanted to die. You could have let him.”
“Yes, I could have. But I have done him no great favor. The winter has been long and cold and the wilderness is ever hungry to claim the lives of those who cannot face it. He is alone and I doubt he carries more than a scrap of dried meat, if that. Food will be difficult for him to come by.”
“You said you did not want him to starve.”
“And that is true. But if that is his fate, better that he face it head on than wait for it to find him while he cowers in the dark and grieves for what he has lost,” Raef said. Cilla nodded, though Raef was not certain she understood.
It was not hard to find a corpse that could pass as Fengar. What was left of the hair was the right shade of brown, the height and weight of the dead man were accurate, and the singed beard needed only a rough trim under Raef’s knife before it was short enough. The man’s face was badly burned, making it impossible to determine his eye color or even the shape of his nose. Raef pushed Fengar’s ring onto the dead man’s finger, working it over a thick knuckle, and wondered if Bryngolf Brightshield was laughing in Valhalla.
Raef shouldered the corpse and set off in the direction of the river. When he and Cilla emerged from the burned forest, the sun was glowing in the east, but the cold morning light was not all that had arrived on the opposite bank of the river.
Bryndis was there, dressed for battle, a naked sword in her grip, and surrounded by grim-faced warriors. She had fresh charcoal around her eyes and new ink that traced the outside of her ears and down the length of her jaw. From across the river, she was all bright blade and fierce eyes.
Eiger was waiting with the warriors Raef had found. He had not gone to join the lady of Narvik, Raef noted.
But it was Siv who caught Raef’s eye as he set the corpse in a muddy patch of snow. She was apart from the rest of Bryndis’s company, and though her face brightened at the sight of Raef, he could see that concern for her sister weighed heavy on her.
Bryndis’s gaze fell to the body at Raef’s feet, the unasked question blazing from those eyes lined with midnight.
“The last king, lady,” Raef called out.
Bryndis called for a horse and soon splashed across the river. She dismounted and prodded at the body with the toe of her boot.
“You are certain?”
Raef knelt down and grabbed the dead man’s wrist, holding up the hand that bore Bryngolf Brightshield’s ring.
Bryndis came close and bent over the finger and the fine silver. She kept her hands away from the burned flesh and Raef could see her nostrils flare slightly as she caught the scent of death.
“The heirloom of the lords of Solheim, lady.”
Bryndis straightened and nodded. Her gaze fell to Cilla. “The hostages?”
“I have found one.” Raef placed an arm across Cilla’s shoulders.
Bryndis nodded again and now looked to the trees behind Raef, who sensed she would rather not look at the devastation. “What caused it?”
Raef dared not answer and he let the question linger and then vanish between them.
“We will search for the rest,” Bryndis said. She called out across the river, shouting directions to her uncle, who led across a large group of warriors, perhaps forty in numb
er. They spread out and entered the trees in a thin line, each man close enough to stay in sight and hearing distance of the man on either side of him. To Raef’s surprise, Siv had hesitated on the far bank. Raef mounted his horse and urged it into the water once more. The icy water gripped at him and he grit his teeth against the cold, though this time he entered the river where Bryndis had exited and was glad to find the crossing easier, the current less fierce, the sandy bottom within reach of his horse’s hooves. Siv did not take her eyes from the still-smoking trees as he dismounted at her side.
“Was it Vakre?” Her voice was tight and lined with pain.
“I do not know.” Raef took a deep breath and found he had nothing else to say.
“If he has killed her,” Siv paused, her voice shaking, “if Vakre’s fury has killed my sister, he will answer for it.” A tear slipped out of the corner of her eye and Siv brushed it away with a hurried swipe of her hand. Raef caught that hand and took it between his, and at last Siv turned her head and looked at him. A ragged gasp burst from her and she thumped Raef’s chest with a balled fist. “I love him as a brother.” The tears came freely now and she did not fight them. Raef pulled her close to him, longing to chase away her pain, but he knew his arms could not release her heart from its grief.
“She may yet be alive,” Raef murmured. Siv nodded against him, then pulled back and wiped at her reddened eyes. Raef leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “Tell me how I might know her, and I will go search until she is found.”
“No,” Siv said, shaking her head. “I will go.”
They crossed the river together, then Raef splashed water on his face, refilled the skin at his belt, and took a few bites of hard cheese. His stomach pleaded for more and an ache spreading from behind his ears up to his temples told him he needed to rest and breathe air that wasn’t filled with smoke, but he would not leave Siv alone.
Cilla would not be left, either. She followed them without a word and Raef did not have the will to argue with her. Siv asked the girl where she had been when the fire started, and if the other hostages had been with her. Cilla said they were grouped together, though no longer bound like the links of a chain, but when the fire sprung up behind them and bore down on their backs, they had fled, separating. She had seen none, alive or dead, since.
