The Blood-Tainted Winter (33 page)

Thirty-One

T
here was no
feast, no celebration in the high hills of Gornhald that night. The survivors of the carnage were quiet and huddled close to small fires, eating what little they had, speaking of what they had seen that day, of the burning lake, of the Valkyries, and of Vakre, who they called Flamecloak. Word spread of the half god in their midst and of the heroics he had preformed. As for those who had fought for the enemy, one by one they went before the Hammerling and pledged themselves to him.

“Your secret is out,” Raef said to Vakre as he lay beside a fire. His ribs ached and his wound, hastily dressed, burned. “They all talk of the Flamecloak and how he single-handedly drove the Valkyries back to Asgard.” Raef grinned, though even that hurt.

“It is you they should honor,” Vakre said. He raised a mead skin to his lips and took a swallow, then tossed it to Raef. “The last of it. Drink up.” Raef did so and then rolled over just enough to look at Siv, who slept by the fire, her face full of peace despite the horrors of the day, despite the bandage that disguised a gaping wound in her thigh. She had been unconscious when Raef found her, and half-buried under a corpse. But she had revived quickly and smiled when she learned of their victory.

Eira was in better shape, but there had been no happiness about her and she had gone for a walk into the hills before darkness fell. Raef did not have the strength to go after her and found he did not feel the need to. She could look after herself, and he was in no mood to tolerate her detachment. If she wanted to be alone, he would respect that and he was too tired to think about what might be bothering her.

“What took you so long?” Raef asked. “I nearly died three times before that fire went to work.”

Vakre laughed. “The Palesword left a rear guard. There was no chance of approaching the hole unseen. I had to wait.”

Raef understood, but still he thought of the loss of life that could not be undone. Many men of Vannheim had breathed their last. Erling, the staunch, quiet captain, was among them. But Vannheim had fared far better than the men of Ragmoor, who were all but wiped out.

“Loki brought the Valkyries here,” Vakre said quietly.

“I know. I felt it, too. But why did they leave?”

“I think my father, by foul craft, bound the Valkyries to his will, but I think the bond was hard to keep, even for him, and he had to strengthen it by tying it to a life-force on earth. Sure of victory, he chose the Palesword. When Torrulf died, the bond ceased to exist.”

They were silent for a moment and Raef listened to the fire crackling. Hunger ate at him, but food was scarce. Those who were able would hunt the next day.

“What do you think Ragnarr meant by his last words?”

Vakre shook his head. “I do not know. You never knew what caused his silence?”

“No. There was no shame in his actions, no shame in fighting for the Palesword, fighting for the lord he had sworn to follow. I would not have wished him dead.”

“You cannot know what was in his heart, Raef. Whatever burden he bore was his and his alone. Do not blame yourself.”

Siv stirred then, and cried out, her sleep no longer peaceful. Vakre knelt beside her and woke her. She sat up, her eyes still caught up in her dream, and drank the water Vakre offered her.

“Is it your leg?” Vakre asked.

“No.” Siv’s voice was quiet. “A dream.” She looked at Raef, her expression troubled. “I dreamed that the sun was lost to us.”

Raef struggled to his feet and went to sit beside her. He took her hand, leaned back against a stone, and pointed to the sky. “See, a moon that will take us to morning. And the sun will follow. It was just a dream.” Siv nodded and leaned against him, and though her weight brought him new pain, he let her stay there.

Raef awoke to a rising sun and sore limbs. He had slept flat on his back, for his ribs could not tolerate another position, but the cold ground and his weary muscles had combined to make every bit of him stiff. Forcing himself to sit up right, Raef groaned with the effort.

“Odin’s eye, that hurts,” Raef muttered to himself. He pressed two fingers to the damaged ribs, feeling out the extent of injury. He could bear only the slightest touch, but it was enough to tell him that two, perhaps three, bones were broken. The wound across his chest was no better. It slashed down from his left shoulder and was crudely bandaged with a portion of ragged cloth.

Siv slept yet beside him and Vakre was still sprawled across from him, but a slight noise caused Raef to look over his shoulder. Eira stood just beyond the melted snow, a steaming dish in her hands. Her face was blank but Raef could tell she had taken care to make it so.

“Are you well?” Raef asked.

Eira stepped closer and squatted down beside him. “I am.” She handed the bowl to him and Raef’s stomach rumbled. “I brought you this. A meager broth. But there is little else.”

Raef closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of the thin broth. “Did you kill anyone to get this?” He opened his eyes and smiled and was pleased to see Eira responded with the same. “Thank you.” Cupping the bowl with his hands, Raef took a sip and let the hot liquid slide down his throat. “Did any news come in the night?”

Eira shook her head. “All was quiet.” Raef wondered how long she had been away from camp and if she had slept. They sat in silence as Raef emptied the bowl. “The Hammerling sent out hunters just before dawn. He promises rich meat for all this night. And he has sent others to lay claim to every barrel of ale within half a day’s ride.” She detached three skins from her belt. “I found fresh water.” She handed one to Raef and he swallowed nearly all of it, only then aware of how great his thirst was.

Raef returned the skin to her. “I should speak with him.” He struggled to rise and was grateful for Eira’s support. But she did not walk with him.

The Hammerling was not hard to find. He had chosen a central spot just under a small cliff face and his fire burned large. Many men were clustered around him, captains and lords, old allies and new ones. They let Raef through and the Hammerling ceased speaking when he caught sight of Raef. He waved away the crowd.

“Skallagrim,” he said when the others had gone. He clasped Raef’s forearm and showed good cheer, but Raef knew he took in Raef’s pained posture and the wound that still oozed.

“Is there news of Fengar?”

“The coward has fled.”

“He will return. The war is not over.”

Brandulf shrugged. “Perhaps. Or maybe he will seek refuge in some quiet, lost corner of the world and we will never hear from him again.”

Raef shook his head. “He did not face the Palesword. He did not endure the Valkyries. His spirit is far from broken. And there are those who whisper in his ear, tell him he is the only true king. He will return.”

The Hammerling frowned and Raef could see he did not like those words, did not want to be reminded that the matter of the king was far from settled. “We will speak of that later,” he said, his voice brisk. “Now is a time to rest and celebrate our great victory. You were right, Skallagrim. The poets will sing of us.” This brought a smile to the Hammerling’s face, but there was little warmth in it. “Go. Recover your strength and mend your body. I will call upon you when I have need of you.”

Raef knew he was being dismissed but there was even more in the Hammerling’s words. He was being pushed away from the Hammerling’s inner circle, soon to be replaced by new allies who had not witnessed the Hammerling’s moments of weakness and doubt, who did not know the would-be king as Raef did, who could not claim to be responsible for the Hammerling’s greatest victory. Raef knew the Hammerling would never call upon him as he had in the past.

The insult gnawed at Raef but he tried to remain calm. The Hammerling, after all, had spared Raef’s life and could do with it as he wished. There had been no promises made and their alliance had been plagued with mistrust and an undercurrent of hostility. In his heart, Raef knew his father would have done the same, but anger burned deep within him and in his mind he was back in Finngale and he imagined the Hammerling dying upon his blade.

By the time he returned to his fire, his mind was made up. He nudged Vakre with the toe of his boot. “We are leaving,” he said. “Find Finnolf. Tell him to prepare the men. The Hammerling feasts tonight, but I will not share another drop of ale with him. We will leave under cover of darkness.”

Vakre met these words with a raised eyebrow but he said nothing and, getting to his feet, went forth to do Raef’s command. For Raef’s part, exhaustion was yet upon him, but rage kept him alert and he brooded by the fire, feeling every slight, recalling every abuse, but most of all letting his thirst for vengeance for his father, long held at bay, soak into every corner of his mind. It was madness and Raef knew it, yet he craved it all the same.

The sun seemed to crawl across the sky that day as though she was eager to draw out the daylight hours Raef had to endure before he could escape into the night. He shared meat with Eirik of Kolhaugen at midday and forced smiles as he watched the Hammerling bestow gifts upon those the lord deemed worthy. Rings of silver and copper were given to fortune’s favorites and golden arm rings from the dead were dispersed among the allies. Raef accepted his with a solemn face and was told it had last been worn by the Palesword himself. Raef doubted this but said nothing and slipped back among the crowd as soon as he could. The Hammerling himself was thick with newly won treasures. The rings on his forearms were so many there was no skin visible between the shining circles and his sleeves were carefully pushed back to expose this wealth. A great torc hung heavy around his neck. The image was one of a true warrior-lord and Raef noticed the Hammerling’s wounds were cleverly concealed. Hauk of Ruderk hovered close to the Hammerling at all times, a far different man from the one who had ventured into Einarr Skallagrim’s tent at the gathering. Raef wondered which was the true lord of Ruderk.

As twilight set in, Raef made quiet preparations for travel. His belongings were few and his weapons even fewer. The sword hilt he kept, rolling it in his blanket, and the broken axe remained in his belt with the two knives. The short sword was, he thought, still buried in a corpse on the shore of the lake. The legendary spear had gone missing in the aftermath of the battle and though it was a mighty weapon, Raef found he would gladly have parted from it in return for the blade that had shattered. He would be hard pressed to defend himself should the need arise and knew he had to come by a good sword by whatever means necessary, though his broken ribs would prevent him from wielding it with any strength.

A warrior Raef did not know approached him when he had finished. Raef eyed him warily, wondering if word of his imminent departure had leaked and the Hammerling had sent someone to finish him off. But the man had no sword on his belt, not even a knife that Raef could see.

“You are the lord of Vannheim?”

“I am.”

“There is one who would speak with you.”

Raef frowned. “Let him come, then. He need not ask.”

“He begs that you would visit him, lord. His wounds are grievous.”

“His name?”

“He did not say. Only asked that I search for you.”

Raef considered for a moment. “Bring me to him.”

The warrior led him far across the ridge and the walk was long and hard for Raef. He had to pause more than once to calm his heart, for deep breaths sent spasms of pain through his chest and he could feel weakness spreading through his limbs. If fever followed, and wound rot, Raef would not survive long.

When the warrior came to a halt, it was nearly dark and there was no fire to illuminate the faces of the men huddled on the ground. There was a smell Raef did not like and he knew it was death. Some of these men would not see the sun rise again.

“Raef.” It was little more than a whisper and Raef could not at first tell who had spoken. A hand reached up to the twilight, brushing against Raef’s cloak. “I am here.”

Raef knelt and the face became clear to him. “Gudrik.” The poet was injured in several places, but Raef saw the worst of it was a broken leg. Below Gudrik’s knee, the leg bent at an odd angle.