by T L Greylock
For Todd, who made me believe.
He stayed,
lived out that whole resentful,
blood-tainted winter,
homesick and helpless
Beowulf
Table of Contents
Map
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
List of Characters
Acknowledgments
One
The sea was calling to him.
Raef closed his eyes and inhaled, breathing in the familiar mixture of damp earth and salt spray. Heather. Pine. Smoke. The wind, calm and gentle, cascaded up the steep slope beneath where Raef sat, his legs dangling over a rocky edge. A pair of trees, thin and scraggly, clung to the rocks on either side of him, half their roots exposed, their trunks leaning at desperate angles. They were old friends, these trees. Below Raef, a colony of gulls kept their nests, hidden in narrow clefts, safe from predators but for the boy who had dared the descent, swinging down from the trees, scaling the craggy face in search of eggs and downy feathers.
Long ago had Raef ceased to trust the trees with his weight, and he left the poaching of eggs to the fishermen’s sons, whose cottages perched on the shore below, clinging to the coast like barnacles. Tendrils of smoke curled up from the sod roofs and a herd of small boats bobbed in the rising tide. But this was still his place.
The sun was setting, sending waves of purple and orange light across the still surface of the sea. Clouds, pink and grey and lined with silver, were trickling in from the open water. They would pile up against the hills overnight, Raef knew, after a long journey over empty water. In the morning, the green hills would be cloaked in grey and dripping with moisture. The fjord would be hidden under a blanket of mist and the fish would sleep in the shadows.
With the dying light of the summer sun came a cooler breeze, one that hinted of autumn. Raef could almost hear the crinkle of dry yellow leaves underfoot and smell the cider press at work. But autumn was still many days away, many nights of late sunsets and bright stars, many days of hot sun and stiff breezes to carry a ship over the waves. There was yet time and Raef did not intend to wait until the spring before taking to the sea road.
Getting to his feet, Raef turned away from the sea and the setting sun and headed inland. The trail took him through a pine forest, the tall, slender trunks almost pink in the late light, the ground beneath his feet thick with green ferns and bright moss. Here the salty air vanished, leaving only warm earth. A startled deer raised its head from the rivulet of water running downhill, its ears swiveling to determine Raef’s position. Raef froze, waiting to see if the deer would flee. When it did not, he began to reach for his bow. The bowstring was coiled in a pouch at his belt and, with deft fingers, Raef plucked it free and fastened one end to the bow, then bent the slender ash until he could fix the loose end of the string. The bow sang to life, the tension of the string vibrating through the sleek wood, and Raef reached for an arrow and nocked it. With a deep breath, he drew back on the string.
The crack was as sharp as a whip and as loud as thunder reverberating through the valley and the deer was gone in an instant, bounding through the ferns until it was out of sight and leaving Raef empty-handed. Sighing, he replaced the arrow in his quiver and unstrung the bow, then headed down the hill at an easy lope.
The source of the noise was not hard to find. Eight men were at work next to the deepening blue waters of the fjord. Around them, the bones of a ship’s hull rose up like the ribs of a whale and there, at the feet of two men with red, disgruntled faces, was an oaken rib that had failed, splintering with a noise loud enough to wake the gods in Asgard.
“You owe me a deer,” Raef said with a grin, slapping one of the men on the shoulder. The crew of eight looked weary, their tempers frayed. “Come, the light is failing. My father will not begrudge you a cup of ale and a good night’s sleep.”
“Perhaps not.” The speaker was the master builder, a greying man with arms to rival Thor’s. “But he will begrudge us if the ship is not finished before the leaves turn.”
“I will speak with him, Engvorr,” Raef said. “Vannheim has a fleet of good ships. One more before winter will make no difference. Even,” he went on as Engvorr tried to speak, “if Alfrik Pissmouth does make good his threat and sail up the coast.”
There were murmurs of agreement among the builders and Raef left them to pack up their tools and made his way to the smaller of the two gates, the one that backed up against the hillside and was shrouded already in deep shadows. The warriors posted there granted him entrance and he began the gradual climb up the rise that led to his father’s hall.
The Vestrhall stood at the rear of the walled compound, rising above the village and with a view out over the fjord. But for the torches that flanked the stone steps leading up to the great wooden doors, all was in darkness, the last of the sunset blocked by the hulking hill that shielded the Vestrhall from the fierce ocean storms. On a clear morning, in the first light of dawn, the hall would glow, the golden wood bright and warm, the colored glass sparkling. But here in the twilight hour, all was blue and black.
Not so on the inside. Raef pushed open the heavy doors carved with the symbols of Vannheim and blinked against the sudden rush of heat and light. The fire was roaring in the hearth, flames dancing off the carved arches and pillars shaped like tree trunks, and the candles that lined the walls were all lit, as though a great feast was expected.
But no warriors lined the long tables, no rich smells wafted in from the kitchens. The hall was empty but for two figures at the far end of one of the tables. Raef’s stomach lurched. His father was seated, slumped, at the bench, his head in his hands, elbows on the table, his cloak spilling over him. And at his shoulder loomed a man, a stranger to Raef.
With a shout, Raef rushed forward, a knife out of his belt in an instant. The stranger’s gaze came up to focus on Raef, the lean and hungry eyes taking in the impending attack without fear.
Raef had crossed half the distance before his father’s voice called out for him to stop and he slid to a halt on the smooth floors, the knife poised in hand.
“Enough.” Einarr Skallagrim stood up, his eyes fixed on Raef. His forehead was deeply creased in a frown. “Put away your blade, Raef. This man is my guest. And unarmed.” Though his words were peaceful, Einarr’s eyes were unsettled and Raef saw something there that bordered on fear.
Raef, uneasy under the stranger’s gaze, hesitated, then did as he was told. Only then did his father turn his attention back to the stranger.
“Do you stay?” Einarr asked.
“No. There are others who must hear my news. My path takes me east.” The stranger’s voice was low and calm.
Raef’s father grunted. “For a man who makes his life with words, you say little.”
“I say what is necessary.”
Einarr nodded. “Take anything you need. And may the gods give you strength in your journey.”
The stranger inclined his head. “Remember, the full moon.” He turned and l
eft the hall, his long strides taking him past Raef and out through the main doors.
“Father,” Raef began, but Einarr raised a hand and shook his head.
“I must think on this. We will speak in the morning.” Without another word, Einarr, too, left the hall, disappearing through one of the small doors. Only the fire remained, crackling at Raef as though it knew the nature of the conversation between his father and the stranger.
The kitchens were thrumming with life still when Raef came looking for a meal. A small grimy boy had his upper half stuck in the bread oven, cleaning it for the morning. A pair of slender girls shelled peas into a bowl. Two older women were salting a fresh slab of venison in preparation for the drying room.
“Not even a bowl of soup left for you,” one of the older women said without looking up from the meat that was turning her hands pink. She smiled with genuine affection as Raef began to poke about for food.
A tall, older girl with blonde hair and freckles walked in, apron full of boiled eggs. Raef plucked one from her, tugging on her braid as he did so. She giggled, earning a disapproving glance from the second of the grey-haired women.
Raef cracked the eggshell on the worktable and began to peel it. He caught the blonde girl’s sleeve as she went by. “Surely my lovely Maerda will find me a scrap of bread. Maybe even a pot of honey? And I know,” he said, turning to look at the smiling older woman, “you have plenty of fish. I helped unload Bekan’s catch today.” He flashed her a bright smile. “You make the best fish, Darri.”
The old woman laughed. “Fortunate for you that I have a soft heart and you a nice smile.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “You just sit tight.”
The smell of fish frying soon filled the kitchen and the grimy boy ducked out of the oven long enough to get a whiff. His efforts were rewarded by a gentle smack on the wrists with a wooden spoon. The pea-shelling girls, sisters, finished their task with yawns on their faces. Darri sent them off, the boy not far behind, and though Maerda looked as though she wanted to stay, her blue eyes never straying far from Raef, the older women shooed her out as well.
With the bread and honey already devoured, the fish did not last long, even though it was hot enough to burn Raef’s tongue. Soon all that was left was a pile of translucent white bones. Raef planted a kiss on Darri’s forehead.
“The best.” Raef helped himself to a cup of water, dipping into the nearly empty barrel and downing the cool liquid in quick swallows. “I will miss you when I sail, Darri.”
The old woman blushed and swatted at him. “Aye, you mean my cooking.”
Raef ducked away from the mock blow and pretended to flee. “What would I do without you?” he called back as he left the whitewashed kitchen.
Two
Einarr Skallagrim’s chamber was dark, the velvet curtains not allowing a single shred of light to creep in, and the palpable odor of stale ale hung in the air. A great bed draped with furs dominated the room, and atop the furs, still dressed save for one boot that had been dislodged, lay the lord of Vannheim.
“Father,” Raef said. Silence was the response. Raef thrust the curtains aside, allowing light to spill into the room in a great wave. Grey and cloudy as it was outside, it seemed a brilliant sun shone after the darkness the curtains had sheltered. “Father,” he tried again, louder this time.
The slumbering form groaned but did not move.
“Get up. The bread is hot, the table is laid, and it is time you answered my questions.”
Another groan, followed by a jerking arm meant to shield eyes from the intruding sunlight. “Let me sleep,” the lord of Vannheim muttered.
“No.”
Raef’s father stirred again, this time heaving himself into a half-sitting position against the carved headboard, and then looking as though he regretted such violent movement.
“By the gods, Raef. What time is it?”
“Dawn has come and gone.” Raef flung an arm toward the windows. “Can you not see that?”
“I would rather not.” Raef’s father tried to laugh, but it turned to a grimace instead. “All right. You have won. I will come. Give me a moment.”
Raef left the chamber, but not before grasping the arm of the servant who had entered. “See that he does not delay,” he said, then descended to the hall where the morning meal waited.
The servant did good work, and it was only minutes before Vannheim’s lord entered the hall, this time looking as he should. A great cloak with furred collar graced his shoulders, a sword hung from his belt, and both boots were in place. Einarr Skallagrim strode toward the table and accepted a cup of water, but he did not meet Raef’s eyes.
Raef pulled apart a piping hot loaf of bread and topped a chunk with soft cheese and a slice of cured meat. He chewed and swallowed, determined to allow his father a chance to speak of his own accord, but when Einarr began to lay into a second sausage without so much as looking at his son, Raef broke the silence.
“Will you tell me who that man was?”
Einarr gave no indication he had heard.
“Friend or foe?”
Still nothing.
Then perhaps a change of subject would spur his voice.
“I mean to sail, father. As soon as the provisions are ready. My crew needs only a moment’s notice.”
Einarr looked up from his bread smeared in the grease from the sausages. “It is too late in the year. We have spoken of this.”
“The days are long enough still, the weather fair. My ship is strong and fast.”
“You can sail in the spring.”
“No.”
Einarr’s stare was hard but Raef did not look away.
“You will not hold me back.”
Einarr rose from the bench with a shove that sent it toppling over backward. “I will chain you where you stand if I must,” he shouted, his face growing red. “You will not sail.”
“Is the ale still thick upon you, father?” Raef’s own voice was raised now, his hands clenched at his sides as he, too, got to his feet. “You will not deny me the sea road. There are lands out there and I mean to find them.”
“There is nothing out there. You will find only death on the waves.” Raef began to protest but Einarr shouted, “Silence!” Seething, Raef drew in shallow breaths through his nose and held his tongue. When Einarr spoke again, his voice was measured. “You will not sail. Not because of a difference between our hearts and minds, but because of what I learned last night.”
Raef frowned, the anger still burning bright in his gut. “Do not think to put this off. The journey is mine to make. The ship is mine and the men follow me of their own will, in search of fortune and the gaze of the gods.”
“The ship is mine,” Einarr roared. “Do not forget it.” The look of regret followed hard on the wind of the harsh words and Raef’s father took a deep steadying breath. “Hear me, Raef. I have stood against your journey, this is true, but we must set that aside. There is more at stake here than your future.”
There was no doubting the gravity in Einarr’s voice and Raef let his anger slide away, a silver mackerel in the dark fjord waters not to be forgotten. Raef’s father righted the bench and seated himself once more, then chose a scarlet loganberry from the bowl of summer fruit set before them. He rolled it between his fingers and then crushed it beneath his tongue.
“The king is dead. The Great-Belly has called a gathering. It will begin with the full moon.”
Raef saw the shining sea before him, the blue sky above, the shadow of a far shore that pulled at him. He blinked slowly and set that dream in a quiet corner of his heart. “Was not Brynvald of Kolhaugen very old?”
“Older than Frigg’s teats, and old enough to know better than to die and leave us this way.” Einarr stood, restless now, and began to pace, the food and their argument forgotten. “Ten years ago, the gathering might have been a peaceful one. Olvald Ironfist was still alive; many lords would have spoken his name. But now? Now there is no clear choice.”
“Will you put forth your name?” Raef spoke the question quietly, though they were alone. It seemed to him to be something even the gods shouldn’t hear.
His father looked to the back of the hall, where his carved wooden chair, the seat of the lord of Vannheim, stood on a raised platform. “I do not know.”
“And who was our visitor?”
“He is Finndar Urdson, the Far-Traveled. He goes everywhere. He knows everything. It is not just the high king’s death that he brought news of. He speaks of war.”
“War? Who is fighting?”
“A war yet to come, Raef.”
“Do you fear him?” It was a bold question. Raef knew one did not lightly suggest the Skallagrim in Vannheim feared anything.
Einarr contemplated Raef for a moment. “Would you fear the son of Urda?”
Raef could not hide his surprise. “He is a god?”
“Half. His father was a man like any, forgotten now. The Far-Traveled has walked this world since my great-grandfather was a crawling babe. And it is said he has sat at the roots of Yggdrasil with his mother and the other Norns, perhaps even carved a rune or two in that ancient wood. I do not fear the Far-Traveled, Raef, but never would I name him friend. The children of the gods are not like other men.”
Three
Thorgrim Great-Belly’s stronghold was a fortress much like its owner in appearance: squat, rotund, drab, but strong. Around the walls, a camp of tents had sprung up and the odor of men was sharp. The tents of Vannheim would soon join them, but only after Einarr Skallagrim paid his respects to the Great-Belly and presented a host gift.
Raef took a deep breath, touched the Thor’s hammer amulet that hung from his neck, and urged his horse forward, following his father across the open plain. The warriors of Vannheim who had chosen to attend the gathering fanned out behind them, and they pressed onward under the green and gold banner of Vannheim. The banner was bright under the clear blue sky, but hung limply in the calm air. The day was already warm, and sweat beaded on Raef’s hairline.
Leaving the warriors beyond the swarm of tents, Raef and his father, with a pair of captains and a wagon drawn by oxen behind them, rode to the gates, which swung open to admit them. Einarr raised a hand in greeting to several men, only one of whom Raef recognized. He would meet all the lords soon enough. The full moon would appear that night, and under its light the gathering would begin.
