The Blood-Tainted Winter (3 page)

The messenger was not as Raef expected. Instead of a grizzled warrior sent to show the Hammerling’s strength, he was slight, beardless, and young. An attempt at honesty and candor, then, Raef decided, and he might have been convinced were it not for the young man’s eyes. They were hard and did not reflect his smile.

“Lord,” the man said, bowing low, “Brandulf Hammerling sends his greetings and a gift, if you would have it.” With a flourish, he produced an onyx box, darkly beautiful and threaded through with silver. The box alone, Raef knew, was highly valuable. His father made no move to accept the box, forcing the messenger to continue. “Long have Finngale and Vannheim been more than neighbors. Our borders are open and friendly and it is the Hammerling’s wish that they be always thus. To strengthen this bond, he has a further wish: that our lands might be united by blood.” Here the man glanced quickly at Raef, his sharp eyes piercing, before returning his attention to Einarr. “The Hammerling has a daughter and you a son. She is beautiful and full of grace. Any man would welcome the chance to take her as his wife. The Hammerling wishes your son to be so fortunate.” He bowed again, concluding his speech.

Silence fell and Raef engaged the messenger’s gaze. They were of an age, he estimated, and both lean, but, where Raef’s leanness was defined by muscle and his posture that of a man well practiced in battle skills, the messenger was merely slim and his shoulders had not borne the weight of spear and shield. His hands, too, were unmarked and smooth, and he wore no arm rings.

“I give my thanks to the Hammerling for his offer,” Skallagrim said. “It is much to consider.” And with a simple wave of his hand, the messenger was dismissed, onyx box and all.

“There.” Raef’s father gestured in the direction the messenger had departed and poured himself a cup of ale. “That is how it is done. Though in truth I had not expected an offer of marriage. At least not so early. I wonder if perhaps the Hammerling has shown too much of his hand too soon.”

“You mean such an offer hints at desperation?”

“Yes. I am both curious and insulted,” Einarr said, though he looked only mildly amused. “Curious because he has only one daughter. How many lords will he offer her to? And insulted because such a match would render Vannheim weak. It is a match I could have made without the impetus of the gathering, had I wished it, and yet he still believes we ought to thank him for his generosity.” Einarr took a long drink and refilled his cup. “Still, it shows how badly he wants to be named king.”

“What will you tell him?”

“As little as I can, for as long as I can.”

“And will you make offers to other lords?” Raef was still unsure how high his father’s ambitions went.

“What is to say I have not done so already?” Einarr said with a grin. “The work of a gathering begins long before we convene. I reached out to a few men before we ever left Vannheim and have heard replies since arriving here. But not with offers like we just received. I expressed only a desire to talk. What I will do is listen. Listen to their grievances and grudges. Listen to their dreams for the future. My father taught me that information is the most important thing I can possess at a time like this.”

A servant stuck his head into the tent. “Lord, Hauk of Ruderk would speak with you.”

“Here is one of them now. Bring him in.”

The lord of Ruderk was a short, amiable man. Raef remembered that Hauk Orleson and his father had shared in a sea raid a few summers ago. It had been profitable for both men.

The lords clasped arms. “Skallagrim,” Hauk began, “I am not here to offer you pretty words and promises.”

“I have had enough of those tonight. Speak your mind.”

Raef handed a cup of mead to their guest.

“Your son?” Hauk took the cup and swallowed, his eyes on Raef.

“Yes.”

“You know I have no desire to rule beyond Ruderk. But I worry about the secrets other men keep close. I worry about those who have made promises they may come to regret. Dark are the hearts of men, and easily tempted.”

Raef’s father took a step away from their visitor and tilted his head back to empty his small cup. “Your words are pretty enough, Orleson. What would you have of me?”

Hauk smiled, his lips pressed tight. “There are some who reach too high and others who seek power for all the wrong reasons. It would be wise for Ruderk and Vannheim to be of like mind.”

“If you mean to tell me whose name I should support, do it and be done,” Einarr said, his gaze shifting to Raef and then back again to Hauk. The lord of Vannheim was impatient.

Hauk held up one hand to appease Einarr. “You are too hasty, Einarr. Do you give yourself so little chance in this race?”

Raef, emboldened by Hauk’s words, spoke up. “Would you support my father?”

Hauk turned to appraise him for the first time and Raef used that moment to cast a glance at his father. Einarr gave him a small nod.

“You have a troubled western border, do you not?” Raef did not wait for an answer, knowing that Hauk might be reluctant to give one.

“I do. Long has Harald Valderson been a thorn in my side.”

“If my father becomes high king, I will make certain that the question of your border is settled. Harald Valderson will cease to trouble you.” It was bold to make such a promise and Hauk might choose to be insulted that it was the son of Skallagrim rather than Skallagrim himself who made it.

“And how would you remove the thorn? By words or by blade?”

“Does it matter? I will see it done.”

“Agreed.” It seemed the lord of Ruderk was also decisive; Raef liked him even more. He poured another round of mead, the three men sealed the agreement with a drink, and Hauk of Ruderk departed into the night.

Einarr massaged his shoulder. An old wound, Raef knew. “To bed, I think. The Great-Belly spoke of a hunt tomorrow and I do not think we will see any more visitors tonight.”

Raef nodded and pushed aside the thick flap of the tent. He began to trace the path to his own tent, but the stars above were bright and called to him. Instead of seeking his sleeping furs, he found himself collecting his horse and crossing the narrow river once more, then stepping into the cool, leafy sanctuary of the forest. Closing his eyes, Raef breathed in the forest air, glad to be in a place with more trees than men. Though the trees were alive with the sounds of animals, the stillness was a relief after the heat and clamor of the Great-Belly’s hall.

With the full moon over his shoulder and bright enough to light the way, Raef turned the horse up into the hills. Here and there, startled rabbits fled before the horse’s hooves. Night birds and soft breezes reigned in the branches above, though the songbirds went quiet at the low call of an owl.

After the trees thinned, Raef found himself on a grassy ridge with the fortress below and the plains stretching out into the night. They meandered east, Raef allowing the horse to do as she pleased, until Raef noticed a set of crumbling stone pillars, stark and vivid against the black sky, in the distance. He urged the horse toward the ruins and dismounted to examine them.

The foundations were extensive, far beyond what was first visible at a cursory glance. The pillars, still well above Raef’s head, were but a small part of the whole, forming a circular center from which all else emanated. The stones were worn by wind and rain and in many places all that remained was the base, barely visible in the grass. No peasant house was this, but neither did it bear resemblance to any lord’s dwelling Raef had seen. And it had been a solitary building, of that he was sure. Pacing away from the ruins, he could find no evidence that it had ever existed as part of a group.

Raef sat on a flat stone and closed his eyes, imagining the valley before the first lords of Balmoran had raised their fortress. This building would have been a lonely place, blasted by wind and rain; a cold place with the hard, unforgiving mountains above. And yet Raef sensed that there would have been peace to be found in this place as well. Though who had sought it here remained unanswered.

Time passed; the stars turned overhead. Whether Raef slept or not, he could not say. He raised himself off the stone and turned to call his horse. It was only then that he noticed the man among the pillars.

Raef’s hand flew to the sword at his belt and the blade was out in an instant, shining cold and unforgiving in the moonlight.

“Peace, Raef Skallagrim. I did not mean to startle you,” Finndar Urdson, the Far-Traveled, said. He stepped away from the pillar that had shadowed him, his hands out to show he did not threaten. He was dressed as Raef had last seen him, his clothes showing no wear from travel, his cloak free of dust and mud. He carried nothing and had no horse.

“You came quietly.”

“You were much absorbed, I think.” The Far-Traveled took several steps to shorten the distance between them, but the sword remained in Raef’s hand. “Again, you show me naked steel. What have I done to earn your displeasure?”

“I only sought to protect my home and my father,” Raef said.

“And now?” Finndar gestured to the empty hills and the expanse of starlit sky above.

“My father told me not to trust you.”

The Far-Traveled laughed, a quiet laugh that seemed to run through the bloodless veins of the stones around them. “So most men say. He will have told you what I am.”

“He did.”

“But did he also say that I walk this world unarmed?”

Raef lowered the sword until the tip brushed the grass at his feet. “Are you here for the gathering?”

“No, but I think you knew that already.” Finndar held Raef’s gaze for a moment. “This gathering, it is a thing done by men for men. I have no place here. I merely wish to observe.” In that moment, Raef saw the age in the half god’s eyes. They were eyes that had observed much, that was clear.

“Do you know who will be chosen? Has that future been shown to you?”

The Far-Traveled shook his head.

“But you spoke of war.”

A nod this time, but nothing further.

“Whom do you serve?”

“I serve no man, or men. In Vannheim, I came to you from the lands of Brandulf Hammerling, but that is merely the path I took.”

“The gods, then? Does Odin direct you?”

The Far-Traveled laughed again. “Odin would often like to bind my tongue I think, but the High One cannot. I serve a purpose, that is all.”

“You speak in riddles.”

“I speak what I am given. It is both who and what I am.”

They were silent for a moment and Raef sheathed his sword. The night was old and the moon had traveled far across the sky. Raef would have to return soon. Finndar fingered the closest pillar, as though doing so called up a memory.

“Do you know this place?” Raef asked.

Finndar grinned, his teeth white in the moonlight. “I am not that old. I have seen much and walked this world for a long time, that is true, but this,” he gestured to the ruins, “this is beyond me. The stones were raised not long after men first came to Midgard. The mountains carved from Ymir’s bones were young then, the rivers and seas were newly made from his blood, and the earth was rich with the first giant’s flesh.”

Raef persisted. “But you know what it is. Or was.”

The Far-Traveled gazed at Raef for a long moment before speaking. “This was a temple to Odin,” he began at last, after inhaling deeply. “One of the first. It was a place of beauty beyond reckoning, crafted lovingly with skill granted by the Raven God himself. There is no man alive now, nor has there been for thousands of years, who could duplicate the work.”

Finndar paused and was silent for so long, his eyes no longer seeing the view before him, that Raef could almost see him pulling the memory from his mind, as though it were a fine gossamer thread that would shatter under force.

He settled himself on the flat stone Raef had occupied earlier. “The Allfather gave the creators of this place knowledge and wisdom and battle-strength. It was a time when the gods made their presence known more often than they do today and the people here made the most of that.”

“What happened to them?”

Finndar shrugged. “The world changed,” he said, as if it were truly that simple. “All cannot stay as it is. I have heard it said that these people overstepped themselves, pressed their favor with the Allfather too far. Or perhaps they merely slipped out of thought and time.”

Raef glanced at the ruins around them. “I thought this a place of peace.”

Finndar smiled a little. “It was. For a time.” The Far-Traveled stood. “Come, you must return.” He whistled. Raef’s horse trotted over and Raef mounted. “Until we meet again,” Finndar said, in a tone that was unquestionably knowing.

“Do you know when that will be?”

“I do.”

The certainty of those words crawled across Raef’s skin but the look on the Far-Traveled’s face told him not to ask the son of Urda to elaborate. He raised a hand in farewell, then turned the horse back the way he had come, leaving the half god to his memories.

Clouds had rolled in from the west, marring the moon’s bright face, and Raef’s descent was done in greater darkness. When the way grew steep, Raef dismounted to ensure the horse did not stumble on uneven ground and throw him. They took their time in the unfamiliar pines, treading softly over moss and needles, and crossed three rivulets of water trickling down to join the river below. At the third, a neatly carved miniature gully, Raef let the horse dip its head for a drink, and in that moment he heard footfalls. He was being tracked.

Five

R
aef continued on,
prevented from altering his course by a steep drop-off to his left that ran across the face of the hill. A sharper, more direct path to the tents below was unavailable. Alert now, he listened for the telltale noises of men, trying to determine how many were at his heels, but they moved with care and he knew he had been fortunate to hear them at all amid the chorus of insects, birds, and small animals.

He was armed and they would know it. The axe rested against his lower back, a reassuring friend, his sword hung from his belt, ready to sing if he drew it, and two knives at his other hip would deal death in cramped spaces. They would attempt to overwhelm him, falling upon him from all sides in a coordinated attack. The horse might serve to shield Raef’s back, if they did not slash open its throat.

Raef could see the torches of the tent city through the trees, and there, a spear’s throw ahead of him, the descent turned gentle. If he could reach that point, the horse would carry him ahead of his pursuers and to the safety of the firelight.

The knife spun past him, a flash of silver in the moonlight, missing his shoulder by a hand’s breadth. A poor throw. Raef heard, rather than saw, it skitter off a tree trunk ahead and land on the forest floor, but he was already spinning and drawing his sword and axe. The steel glinted cold and dark, the edges thirsting for blood. A second knife hurtled toward Raef and he ducked and rolled forward, coming to his feet again to meet the dark shape and bright sword that followed on the heels of the knife.

The swords clashed and shivered, but Raef was still moving forward and his axe cleaved into the attacker’s ribs, catching in leather and flesh. The yowl of pain split the night and the man brought his sword around in an attempt to slash Raef, but Raef was gone and out of reach. To stay in one place for too long was to invite death.

The second attacker sprang from a bush, a war cry on his lips and an axe in hand. Raef ducked the first swing and hacked at the back of the man’s thighs with his own axe, then sliced up into the warrior’s thick arm with his sword. The blade caught in the leather, but had already cleaved halfway through the limb, rendering it useless. Wrenching his sword free, Raef spun to face the third warrior and met the eyes of Erlaug, son of Hymar, and the hatred he saw there was thick and venomous.

“You think to slaughter me like some beast of the hunt, Erlaug?” Raef, without a scratch on him, was bursting with the battle song and he held his arms wide, inviting Erlaug to attack. “My blades have drunk the blood of your friends.” His sword and axe shone red in the moonlight. “But they thirst yet for yours.”

With a snarl, Erlaug sprang forward at the same moment Raef heard a shuffle from behind that told him the second warrior was not finished with him. The two converged, the wounded man armed now with a knife in his other hand, the right arm dangling at his side. Blood poured from the wound and he would not last long, Raef knew, but long enough, perhaps, to draw Raef’s blood.

There was no time to move, no time to scramble up the slope and give himself the higher ground, no time to put Erlaug and the other warrior in line with each other so they could not attack at the same time. And so Raef chose. Turning his back on the wounded warrior, Raef faced Erlaug head on, beating him back with sword and axe, his furious strokes countered with desperate strength. Raef’s speed took its toll, though, and Erlaug slipped on damp earth. He kept his feet, but not fast enough to avoid the bite of Raef’s sword in his leg. Staggering, he went to one knee and Raef moved to finish him but fiery pain in his calf stopped him in midstride. Stumbling, reeling, the forest became a blur. Raef saw the wounded warrior sprawled on the ground, a knife wet with Raef’s blood clutched in his hand as his own life’s blood pumped out to stain the moss red. Granted a reprieve, Erlaug, pale and unsteady, was on his feet, and he limped to Raef, ready to strike a killing blow.

The arrow buried itself in Erlaug’s chest and he looked down at it in wonder and confusion, sword poised in hand. The second arrow sprouted not far from the first, grey fletching quivering, and this one dropped Erlaug, though he seemed not to realize it for he still tried to swing at Raef. The sword arced harmlessly through the air and Erlaug swayed on his knees, the surprise still etched on his face.

Raef scrambled backward, trying to pinpoint the new threat, but the hooded figure that strode out of the trees ignored him and went straight to Erlaug. He bent over the wounded man and, his hand on Erlaug’s cloak to keep him upright, spoke in his ear. When the man stepped away, Raef saw Erlaug’s face was white from something other than pain.

Only then did the hooded figure turn to Raef and by this time the trees were alive with torches as men were drawn from the tents by the sounds of battle. Raef’s rescuer swept off his hood.

“Vakre,” Raef said. Vakre hooked a hand under Raef’s arm and helped him to his feet. A sturdy tree trunk behind Raef was a welcome support.

“I am sorry I came so late.”

“I would be a smear of blood and flesh upon this dirt if not for you.” Raef searched Vakre’s eyes. They were calm and still and told of nothing. “What brought you here?”

Vakre looked over his shoulder at Erlaug, who seemed to have turned to stone. When he looked back at Raef, he did not answer the question. “There will be trouble for both of us. One man dead,” Vakre gestured to the warrior who had stabbed Raef, “one dying,” a nod toward the first attacker who lay where Raef had felled him, “and a lord’s son badly wounded, perhaps never to recover.” There was a great deal of pleasure in Vakre’s voice as he said those last words. “It is no small thing to act on a blood feud at a gathering.”

“Trouble for one of us, you mean,” Raef said, limping to Erlaug and yanking the arrows from his chest. Erlaug moaned and slumped over. Raef handed the arrows to Vakre. “Go,” he said. “They will be upon us soon.” The torches were close and the voices of men distinct. Vakre did not take the arrows. “Go,” Raef said again, “this was my work and mine alone.”

“I will not let you take the blame for this.”

“I owe you that and more,” Raef said. Vakre wrapped his hand around the arrow shafts but still he hesitated. “I am the son of the Skallagrim in Vannheim. They would do far worse to you than they will to me.” Raef stared hard at Vakre. “You were never here.” Vakre held Raef’s gaze, then gave a single nod that said more than words. He turned and vanished into the trees.

The torches converged on Raef a moment later, revealing the aftermath of the fight. The faces that circled around Raef were mostly unknown to him, but there was one that seethed with anger at the sight of his son lying wounded at Raef’s feet. Only strong arms and a commanding voice kept Hymar, lord of Grudenhavn, from leaping to tear out Raef’s throat.

The voice that held Hymar at bay belonged to a tall, lean-faced lord. He looked at Raef, then at the scene around them. His gaze lingered over Erlaug’s pale, sweaty face.

“What happened here?” The question was directed at Raef.

“They attacked me.”

“Your name?”

“Raef, son of Einarr of Vannheim.”

The tall lord asked the same of Erlaug, who did not answer, and, though he stared at the lord’s face, seemed to see nothing. Hymar answered for him.

“He is my son and young Skallagrim speaks lies.”

Raef fumed at Hymar’s words but held his tongue.

“It is the dead of night, Raef, son of Einarr,” the tall lord said. “What brought you out here so late?”

“I sought solitude.”

“And you?” Again Erlaug did not answer or seem to comprehend. The tall lord peered into Erlaug’s blank eyes then frowned and called over three of his own men. He pointed at Erlaug’s companions, one dead, the other dying. “See to them,” he directed. “Hymar, do with your son as you will.” One warrior slung the dead man over his shoulder, the other two helped the one with the wound in his side to his feet and dragged him down the hill to the tents. Hymar did the same for his son, cursing Raef every step of the way. When only a few onlookers remained, the lord turned his attention back to Raef.

“One dead. The other will not last the night.” The lord’s eyes were grey and hard in the torchlight. “You have much to answer for.”

“Torrulf!” Einarr Skallagrim’s voice cut through the darkness and suddenly he was at Raef’s side, a group of Vannheim men behind him. “I will take my son, now.”

Torrulf Palesword nodded. “As is your right. But he has shed blood, Einarr. You know this will not be the end of it.”

Raef caught the grimace in his father’s face but then he was being herded down the hill and ushered into the safety of the Vannheim tents. The pain in Raef’s calf was sharp. The blood had soaked into his boot and he could not walk without a limp. If his father noticed, he said nothing, and they marched to Einarr’s tent in silence.

When they were alone, Einarr turned his back to Raef, busying himself with a cup of ale, but it seemed to Raef that he sagged, that the proud shoulders slumped, that a great sigh escaped from his lips. When Einarr faced Raef once more, his eyes were grim.

“I will ask you this only once and I expect the truth. Did you seek this fight?”

“No, father.” When Einarr did not respond, Raef ventured to explain. “I rode into the hills. This place, it seemed to close in about me, so I left. On my return, they found me. Perhaps they followed me from the moment I left the tents. I fought to defend myself. Nothing more.” It would do no good to mention the taunts he had flung at Erlaug. And he would say nothing of Vakre.

Einarr nodded, though Raef could see little acceptance for what he had done in his father’s face. “Hymar will demand punishment and many will agree with him. But I can demand it as well, for when two men cross blades in anger, there is fault on both sides. I will see to it that you are punished equally or not at all. Hymar will not wish to see his son suffer further humiliation.” Einarr set aside the ale he had poured and not touched. “Go. See to your wound.”

Raef pushed aside the tent flap. “I am sorry, father.”

“If you spoke the truth, then you have nothing to be sorry for.”

And yet Raef felt Einarr’s disappointment as sharply as he felt the slice in his leg. After the wound was cleaned and stitched, and he had dulled the pain with an ample dose of ale, Raef retreated to his own tent. Dawn was not far away and Raef’s mind and body were tired. The furs were soft and the ale had been strong, but sleep did not come easily in those last hours of starlight. When it did come, it brought dark dreams that Raef could not remember, save for a sensation of loneliness.