by T L Greylock
Twenty-Two
Raef was conscious of the sun on his face before he opened his eyes. There was little warmth in its rays, but Raef was glad all the same. The sky was awash with blue and white. Clouds scuttled high above and the sun’s light seemed like high summer to him. Inhaling deeply, Raef lay motionless for a moment, soaking in the stillness around him. He could hear the sound of water running a slow course, but all else was quiet. Pushing himself onto one elbow, Raef took in his surroundings.
He was on the earthen bank of a river. The water ran smooth and clear, uninterrupted by rocks. To his other side, a dense forest promised shadows and the sound of birds. The air was cold and a frost had covered each blade of grass, every tree branch, every red berry on the low bushes. The world, despite the winter, seemed pristine and new, a far cry from the blood and battle Raef had last known.
What had happened, Raef did not know, but that he was downstream of the battleground and Fengar’s stronghold was certain. His sword had somehow made the trip with him. Standing, Raef plucked it from the dirt, rinsed it in the river, and replaced it in its scabbard. His other weapons, the knives at his sides and the axe at his back, had also stayed with him. His wounds, a gash on his upper arm and slice above his knee, had been washed clean and no longer leaked blood. His head ached from the kick of the horse. How far he had traveled he could not tell, but it was time to find out. Raef scooped water to his mouth with his hand and then began to walk north.
It was not long before he saw signs of other men. The first body was close to where the river had deposited Raef and after that he saw more and more corpses. Some he checked for life, others he did not have to. None of the faces were known to him and there were few means to determine which belonged to the Hammerling and which to Fengar. He had been walking for some time, following the river, before he found a live one. The man was half in the water, half out, and the hole in his belly was pink and bright. How he had lived that long, was beyond Raef. Mute with pain, the man’s gaze focused as Raef knelt beside him. There was no fear there. His face had the look of someone who had passed fear long before.
Raef drew his knife and held it where the warrior could see it. The only response was a long, slow blink of the eyes. Raef took that as assent. The warrior was weaponless so Raef took his own axe and placed it in the man’s limp, empty palm. Two fingers curled around the wooden haft. Positioning his knife carefully between the ribs, Raef plunged the blade up and into the heart with a swift motion. The death was quick and clean. Raef reclaimed his axe and continued north.
The wound on his arm, though raw, stayed dry as he walked. Fresh blood soon welled above his knee, though, and for a time, Raef walked in the river, both to wash the blood away and to numb the pain. By the sun, he judged he had awoken on the riverbank late in the morning. The sun had traveled far across the sky by the time he caught sight of the island village. The river was still swollen here, pushing beyond its banks as the water churned. To reach the village was out of the question for the currents were swifter than before and Raef had no means to cross the water.
Beyond the village, Raef came to the merging of the waters. It was a vastly different sight than when he had first laid eyes on it days before. Instead of two distinct riverbeds coursing through the meadow, the area was one broad field of water. Fengar’s walls rose up out of a murky lake. Of the battle, there was little sign but even from his distance Raef could see that below the water’s surface the plain was littered with bodies. Raef saw no movement, not a horse or a man, until a figure appeared at the top of the wall. Too distant to distinguish any features or determine even if they had fought under the same banner, Raef did nothing to draw the watcher’s gaze. Last Raef knew, the Hammerling controlled the fortress, but much could have changed.
Keeping to his far bank, Raef watched and waited, half out of wariness, half of necessity, for though the far plain looked passable, he did not trust himself to manage the river’s deep and dangerous currents. After a time, the stronghold’s gate opened and a small group emerged on horseback from within the walls. Here at last was a clear sign. Trailing from a spear, the Hammerling’s banner of black and gold unfurled in the breeze as the party spread out to search for survivors. Waving his arms and shouting, Raef went close to the river’s edge and caught their attention.
“Are you hurt, lord?”
“Only a little. Does the Hammerling live?” Raef called out.
“He lives.”
One of the riders tied a rope to an arrow and shot it across the river. Raef let it land and sink into the muddy bank, then untied the rope and secured it about himself. Stepping into the river, Raef nearly lost himself to the current, but the rope held firm and he was able to swim across with their help.
Inside the walls, the Hammerling’s once mighty host was now a pack of half-drowned, wounded men crowded in and among the buildings. The water was not as deep there, but still it covered the earth. The men led Raef to Fengar’s hall and then on through passages and other rooms until they reached Fengar’s own bedchamber. The Hammerling rested on the great wooden bed, but he opened his eyes at Raef’s entrance. Raef saw Hauk of Ruderk and a few other lords and captains in the room.
“Skallagrim.” The Hammerling’s voice was weak. Raef moved close to the bed to hear him better. “I am glad to see you yet among the living.” Speaking seemed a great effort and it was a long moment before he summoned the strength to continue. “What happened to you?”
“I was swept downriver. I have only just walked back. What of Fengar?”
“Victory belongs to no one. Fengar has regrouped in the forest just north of the battlefield. The flood decimated our numbers equally. In some ways, it may have saved us.” The Hammerling closed his eyes for a moment. “We were overrun.” Another pause. “Many of your men survived. I am told those on foot are several days behind. Vannheim is yet strong.”
“And Vakre of Finnmark? Eira? Siv?”
Brandulf shook his head. “I do not know. It may be they found their way inside these walls. Look for them.” He closed his eyes again and Raef stepped back.
Before leaving the chamber, Raef pulled aside a captain called Leifnar, a man he knew to be loyal to the Hammerling. “Will he live?”
Leifnar nodded slowly. “I believe so. I think his spirit needs mending more than his leg. We have lost many men, though if all the wounded recover, our numbers will still be strong.”
“Keep the lords away from him and each other as best you can. I do not trust them to keep their oaths. One rotten mind could turn the others against him,” Raef said. Leifnar nodded. “Are we well-supplied?”
“Fengar kept a rich house. Food will not be a problem for many days.”
“Then we have the advantage over him. The forest will be less kind to his men. Is there a raft yet in one piece?”
“Several.”
“Take men to the village and ask for aid.”
“Will they help, with Fengar so close at hand?”
“They will have needs just as we do,” Raef said. “If we are first to offer them assistance, they may do the same. If you find a young girl called Cilla, she belongs here. Bring her back safely.” Leaving Leifnar behind, Raef wound his way through Fengar’s buildings until he came to the servant’s quarters and the room he and Eira had claimed for themselves. There was no sign of the shieldmaiden. His few belongings were there and Raef took a moment to change into dry clothing and wrap himself in his fur-lined cloak before setting off to search for his friends.
The rooms Vakre and Siv had taken were nearby but empty save for their travel packs. Raef returned to the main hall and looked along the rows of wounded there but the faces he sought were not among them. Medicinal supplies from Fengar’s storehouse were at hand, so Raef quickly bandaged the wound on his leg. Outside the hall, he asked after the Vannheim warriors and was told they had congregated near the rear of the compound, taking up one of the stables for their use.
Raef was greeted at the stable with
a loud cheer. He searched for Thorald among the crowd, but the young captain, Finnolf Horsebreaker, came to his side, his face full of sorrow.
“Thorald has gone to Valhalla, lord.”
Raef bit back his sorrow. “Then I am happy for Odin. How do we fare?”
“Better than most. The wave, it was like an ocean swell, but being on horse saved many of us.”
“And more are coming?”
“Yes, we left those on foot to make better time.”
Raef wanted to ask if Finnolf had seen his friends, but the young captain would not know them by name or by face. Raef would have to search for himself. After exchanging words with a few of his warriors, swallowing a gulp of ale, and swallowing down a heel of bread, Raef began to search the compound in earnest, dropping their names here and there to no avail. Once, he got word of a man fitting Vakre’s description, but the wounded man proved to be a stranger. By the time Leifnar returned from the village, he was no closer to finding any of them.
The village women came willingly, Leifnar said, when he told them they could help themselves to food, for much on the island had been lost or ruined in the water. Armed with bandages and herbs, the women spread out to aid those they could. Cilla had been found, but she had scampered off the moment Leifnar brought her inside the walls. Raef turned his attention back to his search and at last got word that a small group of shieldmaidens had taken to a separate kitchen building for privacy.
The kitchen smelled of bread long baked and cold hearths. Raef went inside and was relieved to see Eira’s pale face across the room. She was sleeping against the wall near an open hearth, her shield arm cradled against her. It was broken, of that Raef was certain, but she seemed well otherwise. When Raef bent over and kissed her forehead, she stirred but did not wake. Only when he touched her cheek did her eyes open. She did not smile or say a word, but her good arm reached for his hand and he took her smaller hand between his, content to stay by her side if she wanted him there.
Soon, one of the village women came to the kitchen and made her way to Eira. Between the two of them, they reset the arm. Eira grimaced but did not cry out. Raef held a skin of water to her lips as the woman wrapped her arm to keep it still. When the work was done, Raef gathered her up in his arms and carried her from the kitchen to their room. He placed her on the mattress and sat with her a moment.
“I must look for Vakre and Siv. I will return soon,” Raef said. Eira nodded and closed her eyes as Raef left.
Night had come. A great fire burned on higher ground within the walls. Men gathered for warmth and fellowship. Leifnar was there, seeing to the distribution of food. Though the captain had said there was plenty, Raef was glad to see the stores being treated with care.
Raef went to the captain. “Have you seen a shieldmaiden with a braid of red and gold?” Leifnar shook his head. Raef continued on, searching the buildings he had not yet been to, vowing to look at every face before allowing himself to think she was dead. At length, Raef returned to the fire, his hunger a gnawing force in his belly no longer ignored. Raef stood by the flames, chewing on dried meat, his mind forming plans for the morning. He would ride out of the fortress and search the surrounding area for Siv and Vakre. The water level would have fallen. He would find them, alive or dead.
Lost in his thoughts, Raef did not at first react to the hand that rested on his shoulder. Only when it slid down to his elbow and the figure stepped around to face him did he register the face in front of him.
Siv’s face was drawn, her eyes tired, but still she offered a small smile. Raef held her at arm’s length for a moment, then pulled her to him in a fierce embrace.
“I have searched for you,” he said.
“And I you,” she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder.
Raef released her. “Are you well?”
Siv gestured to her leg, which was wrapped in more than one place. “I can walk and that is enough.”
“Eira I have found, but Vakre is yet missing. I will search outside the walls tomorrow.”
“I will join you.”
By morning, the water inside the walls had receded to little more than puddles in the lowest places. Snow had come in the night, dusting the buildings with a white coat. Scouts had left the walls before dawn and were now returning with the news that Fengar had fled in the night, retreating to safer ground. Raef visited the Hammerling as word of this was brought to him.
“He was vulnerable there,” Leifnar said. “He has allies with lands close by. Likely he has sought refuge. Perhaps he aims to go so far as Gornhald, for Stefnir is his strongest friend.”
The news seemed to bring strength to the Hammerling. With help, he rose from his bed. “We will regroup here and then pursue him. To Hel if we must. He cannot run from me.” The Hammerling called for an attendant and Raef recognized the man who had come to negotiate with Einarr at the gathering. The Hammerling limped from the room, the young man at his side.
Siv was waiting at the gate with a pair of horses. Outside, the water level had dropped, revealing the dead that had lain submerged upon the muddy plain. “It was a great reaping for Odin’s hall,” Siv said as she and Raef rode out of the fortress.
“Greater than any I have ever seen,” Raef said. “And yet I think there will be much more to come.”
They rode first to inspect the forested hills to the north. It was not difficult to find evidence of Fengar’s recent stay among the trees. Ash piles indicated where fires had burned in the night and Raef found several broken shields and other discarded items. Some of Fengar’s men had eaten well; deer bones littered the ground. Leaving the forest behind, they started their search for Vakre on the battlefield, looking close at the faces of the dead. Water and steel had done much damage, but not so much that men were not recognizable. Raef found the body of Hawthor, the Hammerling’s captain who had sustained four arrow wounds in the taking of the stronghold. Not far from him lay the mangled body of Tyrvin, lord of Ragmoor. By the looks of his corpse, he had taken an axe to the face.
“The Hammerling will not be sorry to lose him,” Raef said. Of Thorald, his own captain, Raef found no trace, but he did not know if Finnolf had already taken the body from the field. Of the fourteen warriors who had climbed Fengar’s wall with him, five were among the dead. Of Vakre, there was no sign.
Leaving the corpses to the gathering crows, Raef and Siv turned to the rivers, crossing to the far bank of the western fork. The water had receded there, leaving behind sediment and dead fish. Raef and Siv followed the bank south, checking the underbrush and the trees. The dead were spread out but not hard to find, for the fluttering, fighting crows gave them away. On and on downstream they rode, saying little to each other, until midday, when they crossed at a narrow point in the river and retraced their steps on the eastern bank.
“If he lives, we will not find him here,” Siv said.
“If he lives, and can walk, why has he not returned?”
“He may have been swept even farther south than you were.”
“I heard Leifnar say only seventeen men returned from downstream and I was one. How many more do you think there could be?” Raef heard anger in his voice and fought to control it.
Siv’s voice hardened, too. “I do not wish to think he is dead. I would not think you would wish it either.”
“I do not. But my question still stands. If he is alive, what prevents him from joining us?” Siv had no answer. Raef let it go, but the question burned still inside his mind.
They returned to the stronghold at nightfall. Much had been done while the sun shone. The bodies had been heaped together and surrounded with dry wood smothered in oil. The piles stood silhouetted against the still-bright horizon. As Raef and Siv crossed back over the river, the wood was set alight and soon the field was a blazing sea of fire.
They found the Hammerling in the midst of it all. He stood straighter than he had that morning and his eyes were clear and bright. “Wolves came down from the hills at sunset, h
ungry for flesh. We drove them off.”
“Fengar should thank you for burning his dead, not just your own,” Raef said.
The Hammerling shrugged. “To leave them would prove nothing and would only make a nasty stink. If we are to stay awhile, I do not want wolves on my doorstep.” The Hammerling took a drink of ale. “Did you find your friend?” Raef shook his head. The Hammerling offered him the cup and Raef took it. “A few more stragglers made it back today. I do not expect we will see more tomorrow. If any are left alive, they are not coming.” Brandulf took the cup back. “His uncle is lord of Finnmark and with Fengar.”
“Yes.” Raef could see where the Hammerling’s thoughts were headed. “They are not on good terms.”
The Hammerling turned to look at Raef and asked the same question that had plagued Raef all day. “If he is alive, where is he?”
“He is not with Fengar,” Raef said.
“Trust can burn.” The Hammerling held Raef’s gaze for a moment and then emptied his cup. He gestured to the far side of the fire closest to them. “Your shieldmaiden waits for you.” He was right. Eira, her arm held close to her body, stood behind the flames. Raef was reminded of his first sight of her, for her eyes drew him in just as they had then.
Circling the fire, Raef came to stand in front of her, taking in every feature, every detail with his eyes, as though he could fill all his thoughts with her and push out the gnawing loss of Vakre. Whether it was death or betrayal, Raef could not decide which was worse, but Eira’s soft lips and grey eyes might help him forget.
With the light of morning came acceptance of Vakre’s death, for Raef would not believe him a traitor. There had been too much venom in Vakre’s voice when he spoke of his uncle and too much spirit for him to be cowed by his uncle’s authority. If, in the aftermath of the flood, Vakre had come into contact with his uncle, he would have died rather than fall under that yoke. As the sun rose, its rays filtering across the still-smoking meadow, Raef wondered if Vakre, his father, and Thorald shared mead in Valhalla.
