The Blood-Tainted Winter (18 page)

“Depends on who you ask. For my part, I would say no one. The right voice has not yet spoken.”

“Do the children of Gudrik yet live?”

“You will find them in there,” the fisherman said, pointing to the hall. Raef could see there was much he did not say. He followed the last of the lords up the steps. The Hammerling beat on the door with his fist. When there was no answer, he opened it uninvited.

The interior of the hall was bright with fire and the air was thick with smoke. Raef, the last to enter, could see little beyond the men in front of him.

“Who enters my hall?”

It was a child’s voice that penetrated the hot air. Raef could just make out a tall wooden seat at the far end of the hall. If the boy sat in it, he was lost amid the high back and thick, carved arms meant for a man’s body. The Hammerling took a few steps forward and the lords fanned out behind him. Raef took a position to the side, half-hidden behind a pillar, so that he might observe.

“I am Brandulf Hammerling and I have come to ask for the spears and shields of Karahull.”

There was silence at the far end and Raef brushed a trickle of sweat from his forehead. Two massive fires burned in the hall, nearly spilling out of their ringed pits. The child’s voice spoke again.

“Come closer, all of you.”

The men stepped through the smoky air and soon Raef could see the boy in the lord’s seat. He was perched there like a bird, naked but for a skin wrapped around his waist. His own skin glistened, covered with a thin coat of sweat. His torso was slender, the rib bones easily visible, his face showed none of the lingering flesh of childhood, and his scalp was hairless. All in all, a strange sight, and yet it was his eyes that Raef noticed most. The whites of his eyes were red from long exposure to smoke, and yet his light blue irises shone through, bright and full of hunger.

“You are welcome, Brandulf Hammerling. I am glad that the Allfather has brought you here. Drink with me.” The boy clapped his hands and a girl, similar in age, appeared with a pitcher and two horns. Unlike the boy, she was wrapped in furs, though the heat seemed not to bother her. She poured, keeping her eyes lowered. Her hands shook as she gave the horns to the boy. “Thank you, sister. Go, now.” He handed a horn to the Hammerling, then tilted his own up and drained it.

The Hammerling watched him, then took a sip of his, his eyes never leaving the boy’s face. The Hammerling’s wariness was visible to all and Raef was glad to see it. The boy’s expression changed for the first time as a hint of a scowl came to his mouth and his nostrils flared in displeasure. The mask returned in an instant.

“Is not my mead fine, lord?” the boy asked.

“The finest,” the Hammerling said.

“Are not my fires hot and blazing?”

“They are.”

“My father died in the great fire, you know.”

“Your father was a strong warrior.”

“And yet not so strong as to withstand flames. I will not suffer the same fate. These fires burn night and day and will cure the weakness in my skin. Soon, I will never burn again.”

Raef now knew the hunger in the boy’s eyes. It was a mad hunger. They would get no aid here. The boy-lord’s mind was beyond their reach. The Hammerling seemed uncertain as to how to respond. The boy did not seem to notice.

“You cannot have my warriors, lord. They must remain to protect my people from the frost giants.”

The Hammerling found his voice. “Is this all the answer I am to have?”

“Is it not answer enough?”

The Hammerling worked to contain his scowl, then turned his back and strode out of the hall. The lords were quick to follow. Raef lingered for a moment and watched the boy-lord descend from his chair and stand close to the nearest fire. He closed his eyes and let the flames lick his fingers and then stepped even closer. For a moment, Raef nearly believed the boy, but then he let forth a piercing scream and fell back onto the wooden floor, writhing in pain. When his sister hurried to his side, he kicked her away. Raef turned and left, glad to free himself from the heavy air and the madness within.

At the lake’s edge already, the Hammerling was preparing to board the boat but Raef hurried to his side.

“That is all?”

“The boy is mad. I have wasted my time.”

“Give me a moment,” Raef said. The Hammerling looked at Raef and then gave a short nod.

Raef mounted the steps to the hall once more and faced the village. “People of Karahull! We have come to you with good will.” The villagers began to gather. “Not a sheep has been taken, not a loaf of bread stolen, not a hair on a single head harmed. Would Fengar of Solheim or the Palesword have taken so much care? No, they would have burned a path to this lake and then turned the waters red with blood. Look there,” Raef said, pointing across the lake to where the Hammerling’s army waited, covering the shore in numbers too great to count. “There lies a mighty host. They march to challenge the traitor Fengar. They march to find glory in battle. And they will have it. Will you not share in their victory? Will you not join them?” This last he shouted with great force. “What say you?” His voice rang out in the cold air.

There was silence at first and Raef thought he had misjudged this place and its people. And then the crowd began to swell with noise as men clamored to be the first to spill blood for the Hammerling’s cause. Raef looked across the crowd to where the lords waited by the dock and met Brandulf’s eyes. The Hammerling gave no sign of thanks, but Raef could see the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

It required four trips across the lake to bring all the Karahull warriors from the village to the other side. Some had horses, others would go on foot, all were well-armed. From there, three men and one woman were sent off to ride to all corners of Karahull lands and spread the word of the Hammerling’s march. That the boy-lord had not sanctioned any such alliance seemed not to matter to the warriors and Raef knew they had chafed under the boy’s tenuous rule and he had been right to call them forth.

The journey south continued as the boisterous, bristling horde of warriors plowed a path alongside a deep, fast-flowing river through the southern part of Karahull. The days were bright, the cold less fierce, and the winds were nothing but gentle whispers in the trees. More warriors of Karahull flocked to them and joined their ranks each day.

Twenty

R
aef hunted with
Vakre and Siv most days, keeping well wide of the mass of men, seeking game in the small, wooded hills to the east of the river. Eira, who did not care for the hunt, earned a spot in the Hammerling’s rear guard by biting a man’s ear when he spoke lewdly to her. The Hammerling laughed at the tale and rewarded her with the desired post. She sought Raef out at nights and they shared meat together under the stars.

Cilla trailed after both Siv and Eira and some days Raef saw her not at all. Siv took to training the girl with ease, but it was Eira, with her intense passion for battle, who Cilla watched most closely. Eira treated the girl with civil indifference, which Cilla seemed to thrive on.

“She learns quickly,” Siv said one night as they passed water and bread around their fire. Four skinned rabbits hung over the fire, fat dripping on the flames in sizzling bursts. Cilla, after a day climbing trees and crawling through wet grass, was dirty and tired, but she watched intently as Eira demonstrated the proper way to throw a knife. “Already, she is stronger than she was.”

Raef had seen it, too. Cilla’s arms were as slender as sapling branches, but they were newly sinewy. Her hands, long used to hard labor, had grown new calluses. She wore a knife belt with pride, now, though Eira had told Raef that the girl longed for an axe above all other weapons.

Siv took a small vial of wax from a pouch and dipped a square of leather into it. She rubbed it between her fingers for a moment and then began to rub down the length of her bowstring. “She shows little interest in the bow. But she does not yet have the strength to bend any that we have here. Perhaps in time she will understand its power.”

Raef took a drink of water from his skin. “And when we come to battle? Sooner or later we will meet with Fengar. Do you intend to throw her to the wolves?”

Siv paused her work on the bowstring and looked at Raef, firelight dancing in her eyes. “How old were you when you first joined your father in battle?”

“Ten and four. But I had been honing my skills for nine years, not nine days.”

“She shows great determination and is older than her years. But,” Siv said as Raef started to speak, “a battlefield is no place for her. Yet. When we meet Fengar, she will watch, nothing more.” Siv resumed working on her bow.

“And you will be able to keep her away?”

“She means to be the greatest shieldmaiden to roam Midgard. How can she do that if she dies an untested, unlearned child?” Siv smiled a little at Raef’s concern. “Headstrong she may be, but she knows she is not ready for war.”

Raef watched as Cilla sent a knife into a tree trunk. The blade went in deep and it did not quiver. Eira gave her a single nod, high praise from her, and Raef could see the pride on Cilla’s face. “She may know,” he said softly. “But does Eira?”

Siv studied her leader for a moment as Eira retrieved the knife from the tree. “I think she sees much of herself in the girl. For all Eira and I share in life and in battle, we are not much alike. When you have lived a life as lonely as hers, to see a young version of yourself thrive is pleasing.”

As Siv spoke of loneliness, Raef wondered about her past. She had never spoken of it and he had not asked. “Have you been lonely, Siv?”

“How could I be, when the world is so large?” Siv grinned but then turned serious. “I think a person is lonely only because they have made themselves believe it is so.” It was wisely spoken and yet something about her answer made Raef hesitate to ask more about her life. He turned the rabbits, proclaimed them done, and divided up the shares. Cilla devoured hers quickly and resumed throwing the knife only a moment after swallowing the last bite. Eira sat down next to Raef and leaned against his shoulder.

“We will reach Solheim before the sun sets in two days,” Eira said.

“You have traveled these lands before?”

“Yes.” Eira did not elaborate. Raef thought back to what she had told him when they first met.

“Do you ever remember anything of your old life, before you were found in the mountains?”

She was quiet for a moment and Raef, who could not see her face, thought she might not answer. “No.” The answer was too simple, too terse to be the truth, and the hesitation before she spoke suggested there were things she could tell him if she chose to.

“When I was a boy,” Raef said, “I disliked the color yellow but could not have said why. It was only later that my father told me my mother had died wearing a yellow dress. Sometimes we know things about even our most distant moments without being aware of it.”

Eira ceased to lean against him. “Everything is empty for me.” She lay down on her blanket and Raef could see that her eyes were closed. She would speak no more that night, Raef knew.

The border between Karahull and Solheim fell across a mountain plateau. The land was spotted with snow and trees and Raef knew in warmer days it would be filled with small purple flowers striving to reach the sun. A large farm lay in sight, ripe for the picking, and the Hammerling sent forth a raiding party. Soon, Raef could see smoke in the distance.

When they reached the edge of the plateau and descended into the first valley on Fengar’s lands, the Hammerling divided his force into smaller groups and unleashed them on Solheim. There would be no mercy, no tolerance, only ruthless death and destruction until Fengar was forced to meet them in the field. The warriors took to their task with relish, shouting and singing as Raef watched them go their separate ways.

For his part, Raef would stay with the Hammerling and continue on to Fengar’s stronghold, drawing the would-be king home and into the waiting shield wall. When word of Fengar’s impending return trickled down from the north, the scattered warriors would cease their raiding and rejoin the Hammerling.

“With luck, Fengar will race home, stringing his host out as he hurries,” the Hammerling said to Raef as they crossed the valley. “The first wave will be the strongest, but the stragglers will come too late and be easy prey. Thor will grant us a mighty victory.”

There were flaws in the plan but Raef knew better than to mention them. The Hammerling was a survivor of many battles. There was little doubt that he, too, saw the weaknesses. But to dwell on them would likely do more harm than good.

Solheim was rich, lush, and as yet untouched by the war. Their progress was slow as they trekked south, for the farms and villages were many and poorly protected. By day, Raef rode at the rear, his gaze directed behind in hopes of spotting the Vannheim warriors. He refrained from joining in any raids, letting the other men reap all the rewards. By night, he kept near his friends instead of sharing meat and mead with the other lords.

Hauk of Ruderk dropped back to ride with him late one morning. His breath clouded in front of him but no words followed.

Raef grew impatient. “Is there something you would say?”

“I could ask the same of you.” Hauk glanced over at Raef. “You shun the company of the lords and your sword has been clean since entering Fengar’s lands. Some might wonder why.”

Raef shrugged. “I wait for my men. Of all the lords here, I am the only one who has no warriors to lead.”

“I did not say I wondered why. Your actions speak clearly in my mind.”

“Then why ask?”

“So that you might be aware of what is said about you around the fire at night when the mead is passed from man to man.”

“You are going to tell me whether I want to hear it or not.”

Hauk’s mouth curled up in a small grin. “There are some who voice concerns about your loyalty to the Hammerling. Your forays among first Fengar’s men and then the Palesword’s make them wonder. You were absent for a long time.”

“Do they forget I was a prisoner of both lords? They should laugh at that and scorn me for it, not weave some illusion of treachery.”

“They have only your word for what transpired. You linger at the rear, your eyes on the horizon. Who can say that you wait for the Vannheim men? Perhaps it is the Palesword you expect to see. Or perhaps you mean for your warriors to approach as friends and then turn on us. All these things, they say.”

Raef thought for a moment. “And the Hammerling?”

“He does not join in, but neither does he call for silence.”

“Return to me when the Hammerling is fool enough to believe them. Until then, I care not.”

Hauk shook his head. “Do not be so rash, Skallagrim. Or do you forget what rash action has brought upon you?”

Raef pulled up his horse and looked hard at Hauk. “What do you mean?”

Hauk, too, came to a halt and spread his hands as though to ward off Raef’s anger. “Peace, Skallagrim. It was not hard to determine why the Hammerling calls you ally. Perhaps the exact words that passed between you are known only by you and him, but I would not believe you for a moment if you told me that you sought forgiveness from the Hammerling and he embraced you in an instant.”

Raef stayed silent, neither confirming nor denying Hauk’s words.

“But for your rashness, you might be following your father’s murderer, rather than following the Hammerling into Solheim.”

Raef refused to take the bait. “This war is more important and my father would have seen that.

“You are right, but that does not mean it does not eat at you.” The lord of Ruderk’s words were incendiary, but his face all open honesty. “But enough of this. I do not wish to anger you. I only want you to be watchful of yourself.”

“Why? Why not let me go to my own destruction?”

“Because you were going to solve my disputed border. I feel I owe you something for that.”

“Those were mere words and spoken when my father was still alive and might have been king. You owe me nothing.”

“And yet, here I am.”

“Then go, before you become tainted in their eyes.”

Hauk of Ruderk gave Raef one last, long look, then urged his horse forward just as the walls of Fengar’s stronghold came into view and the Hammerling called for a halt.

The stronghold was nestled in the junction between two rivers flowing down from the north. Though not as large as some, its position meant a strong assault could only come from one direction and a small number of defenders could repel a large number of attackers for a considerable time. They were too far away to judge how many men Fengar might have left behind, but Raef was sure Fengar had calculated that number well.

Downstream from the stronghold, within arrow shot, the river diverged again, forming a large island, and then melded back together. On the island lay a village, the richest and largest Solheim had to offer. Even from his distant vantage point, Raef could see the waters flowed swiftly around the village and that the river was deep and dangerous. The currents had no doubt swept away many a foe or even friend. Even without the presence of the stronghold and its archers, if the ferries were destroyed, only the most desperate and determined warriors would take the village, for the river was its best and most tireless defense.

Paused on a grassy knoll, the Hammerling called up the lords and battle-captains that remained with him to determine how they should proceed.

“If we threaten the village,” began one captain, a grizzled, scarred veteran, “the warriors behind the walls will have to come out.”

“Not if they can pick us off one by one with arrows,” Raef said. “We are not so many that it could not be done by a few skilled archers.”

“A full, frontal assault on the walls is no better,” said Hauk of Ruderk. “They will be well-practiced at defending that. To secure victory, we would need many more men.”

“I do not care to secure victory over the stronghold and the village is far from my concern,” the Hammerling said. “All that matters is that Fengar feels threatened and retreats to defend his home. He should have long heard of our march south. I expect he is already on his way. Here,” the Hammerling indicated the grassy plain before them, “is where we will meet in battle.” The Hammerling closed his eyes for a moment. “I can already hear the clash of steel on shield and smell death on the air. We need only wait.”

Raef broke into Brandulf’s thoughts. “If we only wait, Fengar could pin us between the full weight of his force and his walls. A glorious death in battle, to be sure, but not how you want this to end.”

“Our other men will return. We will not be outnumbered.”

“And if they do not?” Raef pressed the issue, his voice rising. “If Fengar wipes them out as he comes south? If they are too far afield and Fengar marches too quickly? It would be foolish to assume all our men will return in time to face Fengar’s wrath. We cannot leave the stronghold unmolested. We must either draw them out, or incapacitate them in some way so we do not have an enemy at our backs while Fengar bears down on us from the front.”

Raef’s outburst was met with silence until Hauk expressed agreement. “Skallagrim is right. The stronghold must be weakened.”

After a moment, the Hammerling gave a grunt and nodded. “Then let Skallagrim propose how it should be done.”

Raef was ready for this. “I had first thought to fight them with fire. We could burn them out. But it could prove a waste of arrows unless we knew where to place them. The alternative is riskier but, if successful, would be a more complete victory.” Raef gestured to the walls in the distance. “They will expect a frontal assault. Make ready to do just that but wait until darkness comes. While their eyes are fixed on you and the torches you bear, a few men can attempt to penetrate the walls from the river.”