by T L Greylock
“You know this? How?”
She did not answer right away. “When we rode west after the battle of the burning lake, I saw them. They told me they intended to swear oaths to him.” She paused and Raef sensed there was more. “They said if I did not do the same and ride with them once more, they would choose a new leader.”
“I am sorry.”
“The choice was mine,” she said, shrugging against him as though the loss of her warriors meant little. Raef did not believe it.
“When we go to war,” he said, “you will command many spears and you will lead them to glorious victory.” He felt her smile and kissed her hair, glad to be able to give her something that would please her and make up for what she had lost. But when Raef slept that night he dreamed a dream that had visited him more than once in Hrodvelgr’s prison and again, a sleepless vision, in the labyrinth. In it, he watched Eira lead men to battle. Her blade flashed in the sun, the spears and axes around her were a bristling wave of death, and the battle-joy was etched on her face. And yet she stumbled, as she always did, and death came swiftly for her. This night, it was a spear to the throat and Raef watched her squirm, clawing at the unseen enemy whose spear had dealt the blow, but then falling limp. Some nights it was a spear, others an axe, or a sword, or even arrows, and but always the dream ended with Eira staring at Raef as her life bled out of her, her grey eyes calling for help. Raef woke with a jerk, his breath coming hard and fast, sending vapor into the night. Eira was still curled in sleep and he found himself touching her dark hair as though to reassure himself of her presence. Raef took a deep breath and then a long drink of mead from his skin. The sharp edges of the dream began to dull and Raef drifted back into sleep, hoping the dream would not return with the face of Siv or Vakre, as it so often did.
The morning brought fresh snow and it fell fast and thick. Raef relieved his bladder at the edge of camp and had turned back to ready his horse when the arrow flew past his shoulder. Ducking, Raef ran, aware that more arrows had been loosed.
“Shields!” he called. “Shields!”
The camp shuddered to life and Raef snatched his own shield from the ground just in time to take the next arrow in the wood instead of the neck. The warriors shuffled together, staying low behind their shields, until the wall had been formed. From there, Raef peered out, but there was little to see except snow. The arrows still fell, but they were harmless and soon ceased.
For a moment there was silence but for the breathing of the men around him and his own heartbeat, and then the war cry pierced the air and other voices rose up around it. The charge had begun.
The snowfall was so dense that the shapes of their enemy could not be seen until they were less than ten paces away, but Raef’s men reacted quickly, moving their shields apart just enough to let the spears from the rear slide through, breaking the charge and impaling several warriors.
With a tremendous jolt, the two lines clashed, shield on shield, and the short swords and axes went to work, hacking, stabbing, biting through any crack in the wall. Raef, his legs braced, the man behind him pushing forward to keep the wall in place, found an opening and sliced at the knees of the warrior opposite him. The man went down and was replaced by another screaming wordlessly, but his voice died in his throat as Raef, propelled forward by the wall around him, hacked down his shield and sliced into his chest. The man tumbled beneath the momentum of Raef’s wall and Raef finished him with a swift chop to the neck. Still his wall pressed forward, pushing the attackers back, and Raef, though he could see nothing but the heaving bodies around him, knew he had the advantage of greater numbers.
The attackers broke, their wall crumbling and Raef’s men went on the offensive, breaking their own wall just enough to allow the freedom of movement they needed to secure victory.
Tucking his axe into his belt, Raef sidestepped a spear aimed at his chest, then switched his shield to his right arm and drew his new sword. It seemed to hum in his hand, ready to spill its first blood. Raef chopped off the point of the spear and then used his shield to throw his opponent off balance before plunging the blade into the man’s belly. He had not fallen to the snow before Raef had moved onto the next, a yellow-bearded, bald-headed man with an axe. Raef knew that face. This was Gunbjorn, one of his father’s warriors, stout and strong but with a laugh that could bring a smile to any face. All this Raef thought of as he rammed into Gunbjorn. They grappled for a moment, shield on shield, and then Raef dropped to his knees. Gunbjorn fell forward and Raef upended him with his shield. The warrior sprawled in the snow and Raef, without hesitation, stabbed Gunbjorn in the back.
Glancing around, Raef saw that his men were in control, that the fight was all but won. And then he saw Rudrak Red-beard wielding his massive axe, dealing death on all sides. Three bodies lay ruined at his feet and he held four more warriors at bay, spinning, cursing, raging like a corned bear.
Raef approached, the peace he found in battle worn about him like a cloak, his heartbeat steady, his sword held low. He reached the circle of his warriors and Red-beard snarled at the sight of him.
“This one is mine,” Raef said, his voice level. The fury that had boiled over in sight of the nidstang now only simmered beneath his skin. This was battle, nothing more, and his opponent was a man with an axe, not a man who had followed his father into battle, had defended Vannheim with his blood.
Raef’s warriors stepped back, giving their lord the space to fight, the rest now looking on as Red-beard’s warriors had dwindled to only a handful held at sword point.
Raef circled left but he had gone no more than two steps when Red-beard charged, sprinting forward. Raef stepped sideways and the axe glanced off his shield, but Rudrak spun quickly and Raef had to dodge to avoid the axe again, almost losing his footing. Roaring, Red-beard pressed forward again, but the snow had grown slick beneath the trampling feet and his balance was off, leaving his shoulder unprotected. Raef’s sword found its mark, slicing through leather with ease and opening a deep gash in Red-beard’s flesh that he followed with a quick slash to Rudrak’s exposed back as the warrior stumbled.
Raef gave him no time to recover, and Rudrak got his shield up just in time to stop Raef’s arcing blade meant for his neck. The shield splintered and Rudrak dropped it, using his axe two-handed now to shield himself as Raef drove him backward. When the axe haft, too, broke, Rudrak howled and flung the head of the axe at Raef. It missed and fell to the snow. Rudrak went for his knife but Raef was too quick. His sword cut into Red-beard’s thigh, biting deep into the muscle, and he dropped to the ground.
It was not a fatal blow, not yet, and Raef loomed over Red-beard. Their eyes met and there was no regret in either face. Raef kicked the knife from Rudrak’s hand. “Your treachery is not deserving of death in battle.” Raef raised his sword. “But I will take this,” the blade came arcing down and sliced off Rudrak’s right hand, “for with this you reached out to take Vannheim from me.” Rudrak roared in pain and blood gushed from the stump of his arm.
Raef looked up. The snow fell still, dusting the shoulders of the men looking on. “Tie him up,” Raef said, pointing to the trees not far from the battle site. Red-beard was dragged, cursing still, to the trunk of a wide oak, its bare limbs hovering over him in judgment. He was bound and then Raef stuffed Rudrak’s hand into the bindings so the bloody fingers seemed to reach around Rudrak’s throat. A final length of rope was wrapped around his neck and shoulders to hold it there, but even though he bled heavily from his leg and the severed limb, Rudrak’s eyes still showed hatred and fury.
“The wolves were close last night, Rudrak. We heard them while we burned your farm.” Raef leaned close. “How long do you think you will last?” Rudrak seethed but Raef turned his back and wiped his sword on a dead man’s cloak. He surveyed the scene around him. Only a few of his men were dead. Others, bloody but satisfied, watched and waited for his command. By his estimation, Rudrak had attacked with no more than twenty-five men. A foolish decision and they
had paid for it. Only eight lived yet, and they were on their knees, heads hanging. He might have asked questions about the nidstang, might have tried to discover if Rudrak had thought of the curse on his own, but he did not want to remind his warriors of the beheaded horse, not when victory, small as it was, had bolstered their spirits, nor did he wish to voice his suspicions about the priests of Odin.
“What of them?” Eira asked, her sword slick with blood.
Raef stepped close to the huddled prisoners. “Look at me,” he said, for he would know their faces before he sent them to their deaths. The men did as he asked and he looked from one familiar face to the next. Three trembled, their fear visible for all to see, pleas of mercy on their lips. One could not hold Raef’s gaze and his pants were wet with his own urine. The other four stared with dead eyes, knowing this fate had been of their own making. “Kill them,” he said. He looked to Eira. “Make it clean and quick.”
Only two babbled, trying to extend their lives, but Raef had already moved on and he did not watch them die. The fury of battle had held the pain in his knee at bay, but now it roared back, protesting the movement he had required of it. Raef limped to his horse, glad of its solid strength to lean on. He forced himself to draw breath as he fought to control the pain and busied his mind and hands with his saddle. The men stripped the dead of items of value, arm rings and amulets, and then gathered at their disheveled camp and collected the horses. They moved on, leaving Rudrak to die of his wounds or meet the wolves when night fell.
They spent the hours before midday searching the area for any sign of further followers of Red-beard, but they found nothing beyond some horses tethered not far from the site of the battle. Raef let the men rummage through the saddle bags for anything worth taking, then, tying the horses to their own, they turned toward home.
TWENTY
“So, Red-beard is dead.” Isolf passed a cup of ale to Raef, who had sunk onto a bench by the fire. He gave another to Eira. The hall was empty around them, the last warriors having trickled into the night. Isolf raised his own cup. “To victory.”
“To victory,” Raef said. They had returned with the setting sun, riding hard and through much of the night to speed the journey back to the hall. He was weary and ready to retreat to his chamber, but Isolf seemed eager to talk. “What news? Any word from Finnolf?” The young captain and his men were still in the south of Vannheim.
Isolf shook his head. “None. But warriors from Silfravall raided two farms four days ago. A single survivor carried word of the raid to me.”
“There was no one to help them?”
“None close enough. They were isolated from other farms and none were warriors themselves.”
Raef grimaced. “Silfravall’s incursions will continue and they will grow bolder unless they are checked.”
“Send warriors.”
“I should go myself.”
“It may be that you will be needed here.”
Raef closed his eyes, and tried not to think of Vakre. If the son of Loki were there, Raef would send him to Silfravall in an instant. “You then, brother.” Raef did not look at Eira. He did not want to see if she was disappointed at being passed over.
“When?”
“How many men do you have?”
“Forty.”
“The ones who rode with me need rest. Take your own and ten of those who remained here.” He looked hard at Isolf. “Can you do what must be done with that number?”
Isolf grinned. “They will rue the day they entered your lands.”
“Then I want you gone tomorrow.” Raef leaned back in his chair. “Still no sign of Greyshield?”
“None.” Isolf spat. “Coward.”
“He will have seen what was done to Red-beard. It will fuel him.”
“You still think he will come?”
Raef nodded. “I do not doubt it.”
“Let him come, then.” Isolf took a swig from his cup and wiped his lips on his sleeve. “You say you sent five men to scout Greyshield land?”
“Yes. I fear it was a mistake. They should have returned by now.”
“They may yet.” Isolf refilled his cup and Eira’s. Raef had hardly drunk his and he felt his eyelids growing heavy. Excusing himself, Raef retired to his chamber, sure he would sleep deeply. But the gods gave him no respite and the dreams came once more, one after the other, horrible visions of death and destruction with Raef helpless against it all. There was a new dream that night, though, and he woke from it with a layer of sweat cooling on his forehead and chest. He had stood among the standing stones, the ring not far from the Vestrhall, but instead of stones he faced twelve nidstang poles and the horse heads, their eyeballs bloody, laughed at him, each with the voice of the Deepminded.
Upon waking, Raef could not seem to steady his heart. Long had it been since Loki in the form of the Deepminded had invaded his thoughts, and Raef was unsettled at the return. His chamber seemed small and unnaturally warm and Raef, his mind turning from the Deepminded to the visit he would have to pay to the priests of Odin, did not sleep again that night.
Isolf led fifty warriors from the gates the next day, between the green and gold banners of Vannheim snapping in a stiff wind above the walls. Raef watched them go, torn between a desire to go after them, to show the Silfravall raiders the wrath of Skallagrim, and a desire to track down Finnolf in the south of Vannheim. He trusted the young captain to deal with Thoken. Finnolf had Dvalarr at his side, a seasoned, fierce warrior who would give his last breath to see the job done. And yet Raef itched to do something other than wait in his hall, wait for news of Finnolf, wait for news of Isolf, wait for the Hammerling or Fengar to fall on him with axes and spears.
Once, as a boy, Raef had watched his father wait when beset by an enemy, and he began to understand now, as he had not then, the patience and strength it took to not act.
Eira was worse than Raef. She paced in his chamber while Raef bathed in preparation for his visit to the priests of Odin. She strode up and down the hall, feral and restless, as Raef spoke first with his steward, Ulli, then Aldrif, the healer. Raef found he did not wish to watch and when at last he was free to seek the priests’ cave, he was glad to be away from her.
He had visited the cave many times as a boy, often with his father but also in secret, eager to spy on their strange rituals. He had never seen more than the usual sacrifices, the familiar chants, and he soon grew out of his fascination, attending sacrifices only when his father required it.
The cave was not far from the Vestrhall. It sat among the hills just to the north, the entrance disguised by a grove of thick pines among the bare trees of summer. Even at a distance Raef could smell the peculiar smoke that wafted from the priests’ fire. Once he had asked what they burned that was so strange but Fylkir, no older than Raef was now but already debilitated by the illness that would deprive him of the use of his hand, had refused to answer.
But it was Josurr who was there to greet Raef. The young priest was leaving the cave as Raef approached, two stone pitchers tucked into the crook of one arm, the other hand clutching a small axe with long, nimble fingers. If he was surprised to see Raef, he did not show it, though Raef had long suspected that an affinity for concealing emotions was the first requirement for being honored with the priestly robes.
“Skallagrim.”
“Josurr.”
The priest studied Raef for a moment. “I am fetching water. Will you help me?”
Raef followed Josurr to a nearby pool, frozen over, though the ice showed scars in many places where the priests had broken through before. Raef took the axe from Josurr and began to hack at the ice. Though he longed to ask if Fylkir was waiting in the cave, he knew the priest would not answer until the work was done.
No words were spoken until the pitchers were filled with icy, clear water, until they returned to the shadows of the pines and Josurr led the way into the cave. As Raef’s eyes adjusted to the dim light of the wide-mouthed cave, he saw a smoking, earth
-covered pit, heavy furs piled on two thin pallets of straw, a small iron pot heating over a fire, and crude shelves stocked with dried meat, hard cheese, pressed herbs, and honeycomb. The priests, recipients of gifts from those who wished to know something of the next harvest, of an unborn child’s future, never lacked for food or delicacies. Farther back in the recesses of the cave, Raef knew he would find barrels of winter vegetables, dried fruit, and foraged mushrooms.
The animal sacrifices were always performed outside the cave under the open sky, but evidence of the rituals was everywhere. Slender knives wrapped in eel skins, antlers and small skulls with sharp teeth, the withering heart of a hare resting in a wooden bowl, waiting to be examined for signs from the gods.
There was no sign of Fylkir.
Josurr, after pouring some of the fresh water into the pot over the fire, placed the pitchers to the side and closed them up with wooden stoppers. Only then did he look to Raef, who felt the old, childish prickle of anxiety as he wondered if he had bathed thoroughly enough, if his hair was neat enough. The priests required cleanliness and had the right to turn away those they deemed polluted.
“Why have you come?”
“Is Fylkir here?”
“Eagle-in-the-Eye,” Josurr said smoothly, using the name the other priest preferred, “has gone away.”
“Away,” Raef echoed. “Did he not tell you where?”
“He is my superior. It was not for me to ask.”
“I thought priests kept no secrets from each other.”
The mask of calm on Josurr’s face twitched but he held his tongue.
“I am not in the habit of speaking ill of Odin’s priests, Josurr, you know this. But we both know Fylkir to be ill-tempered and vindictive, no matter his skills.” Raef paused, watching Josurr’s face. Still the priest revealed little. “I need to know if he would go so far as to act against me.”
It was the wrong thing to say and Josurr bristled. “A priest of Odin does not answer to men, even to a king. When a priest speaks it is with the weight of Asgard. He is not bound to uphold your will.”
