The Song of the Ash Tree- The Complete Saga Read online

  “Older than Frigg’s teats, and old enough to know better than to die and leave us this way.” Einarr stood, restless now, and began to pace, the food and their argument forgotten. “Ten years ago, the gathering might have been a peaceful one. Olvald Ironfist was still alive; many lords would have spoken his name. But now? Now there is no clear choice.”

  “Will you put forth your name?” Raef spoke the question quietly, though they were alone. It seemed to him to be something even the gods shouldn’t hear.

  His father looked to the back of the hall, where his carved wooden chair, the seat of the lord of Vannheim, stood on a raised platform. “I do not know.”

  “And who was our visitor?”

  “He is Finndar Urdson, the Far-Traveled. He goes everywhere. He knows everything. It is not just the high king’s death that he brought news of. He speaks of war.”

  “War? Who is fighting?”

  “A war yet to come, Raef.”

  “Do you fear him?” It was a bold question. Raef knew one did not lightly suggest the Skallagrim in Vannheim feared anything.

  Einarr contemplated Raef for a moment. “Would you fear the son of Urda?”

  Raef could not hide his surprise. “He is a god?”

  “Half. His father was a man like any, forgotten now. The Far-Traveled has walked this world since my great-grandfather was a crawling babe. And it is said he has sat at the roots of Yggdrasil with his mother and the other Norns, perhaps even carved a rune or two in that ancient wood. I do not fear the Far-Traveled, Raef, but never would I name him friend. The children of the gods are not like other men.”

  Three

  Thorgrim Great-Belly’s stronghold was a fortress much like its owner in appearance: squat, rotund, drab, but strong. Around the walls, a camp of tents had sprung up and the odor of men was sharp. The tents of Vannheim would soon join them, but only after Einarr Skallagrim paid his respects to the Great-Belly and presented a host gift.

  Raef took a deep breath, touched the Thor’s hammer amulet that hung from his neck, and urged his horse forward, following his father across the open plain. The warriors of Vannheim who had chosen to attend the gathering fanned out behind them, and they pressed onward under the green and gold banner of Vannheim. The banner was bright under the clear blue sky, but hung limply in the calm air. The day was already warm, and sweat beaded on Raef’s hairline.

  Leaving the warriors beyond the swarm of tents, Raef and his father, with a pair of captains and a wagon drawn by oxen behind them, rode to the gates, which swung open to admit them. Einarr raised a hand in greeting to several men, only one of whom Raef recognized. He would meet all the lords soon enough. The full moon would appear that night, and under its light the gathering would begin.

  “Skallagrim.” A deep voice greeted the party from the top of the steps leading to the largest tower. There was no mistaking the Great-Belly. Raef had heard he had been a formidable warrior in his youth, but now the most obvious thing about him was that his immense girth put him beyond any feats of valor. He heaved himself down the steps. “We began to think you would not come, despite the Far-Traveled’s words.”

  “A storm delayed our departure.” The lords clasped elbows, but there was no warmth in the gesture. Then Raef’s father summoned forward the wagon. “My gift to you, lord.”

  The Great-Belly eyed the chest within with curiosity and beckoned for a servant to open it. His craggy face lit up on sight of the contents. “A fine pelt, Skallagrim.” He ran his hands over the rough white hair of the ice bear Raef had helped hunt and butcher the previous winter. The skin was soft and supple under the Great-Belly’s touch. He snapped his fingers and the servant carried it away. “Come. The lords await. And the ale.”

  Raef watched his father disappear into the Great-Belly’s hall. The lords would talk now, he knew, but not of the matter at hand. That would wait for the feast. For now, they would laugh and drink and speak of hunting and attempt to gauge the heads and hearts of the men around them, determine who their friends were, and who to be wary of.

  Turning away from the fortress, Raef returned to the Vannheim warriors and led them among the sea of tents until they reached the edge and found a good spot on the border between the tall grass and the forest.

  “A benefit of being the last to arrive,” he said to a captain. “We have a chance at fresh air and less stink.” The captain grinned and began barking orders to the warriors and servants alike. Raef handed his horse off to a servant and followed the sound of running water until he reached the bank of a narrow river. “Fresh air, less stink, and clean water,” Raef muttered to himself. They were north of the fortress and the river was flowing south, out of the hills and mountains that rose up like a spine across the Great-Belly’s lands. Across the river, the forest was thick and leafy and promised good hunting.

  Using half-submerged rocks as stepping stones, Raef crossed to the far side, then knelt to splash cool water on his face. Rivulets blurred his vision as he rose, but there was no mistaking the figure that had emerged from the trees, or the voice that followed it.

  “There he is, lads, the little Grim.”

  This was answered with laughter, coarse and unfriendly. The speaker came to a stand still, ten paces from Raef, his hands resting on his spear. A pair of young men flanked him and Raef could not decide which was the uglier of the two.

  “Did you lose your way, little Grim?” The speaker was Raef’s age and he was broader across the shoulders than when Raef had seen him last. His soot-colored hair fell in greasy waves against his neck, his black as night beard on the marked face was fuller and bushier than the patchy smear Raef had last seen. Still, as much as he had grown in girth, Raef was taller by a full head, a fact that seemed lost on him.

  “I am not so little anymore, Erlaug, son of Hymar.” Though every muscle was tensed for a fight, Raef kept his tone cool and unthreatening, knowing his father would wish it so. Theirs had been a boys’ quarrel; he would not dishonor his father by renewing it now as a man.

  “You have disturbed my kill,” Erlaug said. “I mean to have amends for that.”

  A fight it would be, then, despite Raef’s intentions. He flexed his left hand, wondering if he would regret leaving his weapons with his horse, as Erlaug’s friends each began to draw closer, knives at the ready. “You were always a poor hunter, Erlaug. Surely it has fled before your great stench.”

  Erlaug released his spear with a bellow and rushed at Raef, who dropped into a fighting stance and braced himself for the onslaught. He might have put Erlaug flat on his back. A quick step there, timed just at the moment of impact, a tripped up leg, and Erlaug would be sprawled out, the air fleeing from his lungs, though he would try to catch it back. But Raef was a boy again, with hard memories of old brawls, and a boy’s anger was on him, and so he braced and took Erlaug head on.

  The impact took them both to the ground, fists flying. Erlaug’s weight gave him the initial advantage and he landed two blows to Raef’s stomach before Raef could upend him with a knee in the balls. Scrambling to his feet, Raef aimed a swift kick at Erlaug’s ribs and was rewarded with a roar of pain, but then his own legs were swept out from under him, and they were rolling in the dirt and pine needles.

  The shout did nothing to deter them. Only the hands dragging them apart were heeded, and even then Raef snarled, all wolfish savagery, and Erlaug strained, all bearish strength, as they were separated. Only the sight of Einarr Skallagrim’s face stilled Raef’s blood.

  Einarr’s face was cold as stone, his jaw set, his eyes fierce, and he looked on Raef and Erlaug with scorn as biting as any blade. Erlaug’s friends had fled. “Are you boys yet? You shame yourselves.” Einarr stepped close to Erlaug, who was puffing breath through split lips. A bruise was already spreading under his eye. “I will not see you again, Erlaug, son of Hymar, as long as we gather here. Is that clear?”

  Erlaug answered with a stiff nod and Einarr signaled for his warriors to release him. He did not turn his atten
tion to Raef until Erlaug had collected his spear from the ferns and was out of sight. With a word, he sent away the warriors and then settled his blue eyes on Raef.

  “Twelve years, it has been, Raef, twelve years since Erlaug summered in our hall. Is your heart yet that of a boy’s? Consumed with petty grievances?”

  Raef kept his eyes on the ground, but unclenched his teeth to defend himself. “If you remember, father, he extended our quarrel five years ago.”

  “It matters not,” Einarr growled, his voice as sharp as spear. “Can you not see? We stand at a crossroads, Raef, and the fate of Vannheim must not hang upon what passed between boys in the Vestrhall twelve years ago, or even what happened at Magerholm when you met again as men.”

  Raef raised his gaze. “I never meant to fight. He came at me.”

  “Did you not goad him to it?”

  “You know I did.”

  Einarr was silent for a moment. “Keep clear of him for as long as we are here. And clean yourself up.”

  Aware then of the blood that leaked from his nose, Raef watched his father go, his cloak trailing over the earth, snaring pine needles and dry leaves in its wake. Raef went to the stream and knelt beside it once more to wash away the reminders of Erlaug and his own childishness.

  “Luck is with you, I think,” came a voice, this one new and unfamiliar to Raef. Raef looked up to see a young man sitting on a fallen tree, sharpening a hunting knife. He had a hungry look in his eye and Raef stood, wary once more.

  “Who are you?”

  “I am Vakre. My uncle is Romarr, lord of Finnmark. You are from Vannheim, yes?”

  Raef gave a single nod.

  “And that was the Skallagrim in Vannheim, which makes you his son.”

  Raef chose to ignore this and asked his own question. “What makes you think the gods favor me?”

  The young man laughed. It was a bright, wild sound. “I did not say the gods were watching. I only meant you are fortunate to hold your guts yet in your belly. The other two, the ones with troll faces, they were about to wet their blades. Had not your father and his men come when they did, your blood would be pooling there,” he gestured to the flattened ferns and scuffed moss where Raef had rolled with Erlaug, “and you would be halfway to Valhalla.” Vakre looked Raef up and down and frowned. “Or perhaps not, for you hold no weapon. The Valkyries would never have found you.”

  “Then you are come to finish the work Erlaug started now that your friend has slunk off to lick his wounds?”

  Something unreadable flashed across Vakre’s face and when he spoke again his voice was thick with feeling. “The son of Hymar is no friend of mine.”

  The words should have calmed Raef, but there was something about Vakre that made him uneasy. Raef bent over and scooped a handful of water into his mouth, never taking his eyes from the other man.

  “And what brought you to this corner of the forest, Vakre of Finnmark?”

  The grin that curled Vakre’s lips was feral. “Prey.”

  Four

  The torches burned bright and black smoke curled above the tents, winding amid the banners strung up on rough staves before disappearing into the darkening sky. A sliver of sun lingered on the horizon and Raef watched it from the edge of the Vannheim tents until Sol and her chariot dipped below the surface of the world. The moon would be upon them soon.

  Einarr appeared at Raef’s side, his brow furrowed, but he did not speak of the earlier incident, did not comment on Raef’s swollen cheek the color of a bruised apple. It was the sole reminder of the altercation with Erlaug.

  “Come. The hall awaits,” Einarr said.

  They turned away from the west and, along with their warriors, whose voices would call out for a king, began to weave a path through the tents to the gate. As they went, Einarr pointed out warriors of note.

  “That is Egill Wartooth. He has killed three men this past week.” The warrior looked on the verge of killing again. “And there is Arnbjorn Split-ear. He will win any knife-throwing contest. But do not ask him about his ear.” The names were all familiar to Raef, legends of his father’s generation, warriors and shieldmaidens certain of welcome in Valhalla, though it seemed to Raef that all they were certain of at the moment was finding the next horn of ale. The camp was chaos. What had once likely been orderly and disciplined was now a wild mess of drunken warriors.

  “They have been here too long,” Einarr said, mirroring Raef’s thoughts as they slowed to make way for two men whose wrestling contest had spilled out of its confined circle. “Much longer and the new high king will have no one to rule over.” The grapplers were egged on by a growing audience shouting obscenities; the most foul mouths, it seemed to Raef, belonged to a trio of women, their arms corded with muscle, their blonde hair twisted in intricate braids. “The so-called daughters of Thor,” Einarr said, following Raef’s eyes. “Sisters from Solheim and Fengar’s greatest fighters.”

  The press at the gate was thick and Raef had to shoulder past a group of warriors bearing the mark of Wayhold. He passed others, recognizing the symbols of Norfaem, Kelgard, and Bergoss knit into cloaks, worked out of silver, or hammered into leather. One by one, the men disarmed, leaving their weapons outside the hall in a gesture of good will, though Raef was certain more than a few kept a small blade hidden in a boot. It would not be a surprise to see blood spilled in the Great-Belly’s hall that night. It was not so much the choosing of a king that would provoke them, not yet, though it might come to that in the end. It was the drink and the long-standing rivalries that would threaten sound minds.

  The massive hall grew crowded but still men poured through the doors like fish in a narrow chasm. Raef pressed in close to the Vannheim warriors around him, catching the sour breath of ale on one and the too-sweet odor of sweat on another. Already he was sweating and a trickle slid down his spine. Einarr stood just ahead of him, whispering in the ear of one of his captains.

  A great pounding drew all eyes to the platform that had been erected in the center of the hall. A giant of a man, one of the Great-Belly’s, bludgeoned the floor with a spear until the voices in the hall quieted, allowing Thorgrim to speak.

  “Lords, you are welcome to Balmoran. You know our purpose. May Odin grant us wisdom,” the Great-Belly said before lowering his bulk into a chair. Raef was surprised at the brevity of his words.

  A moment of silence passed, as everyone waited for someone else to make the first call. Finally, a voice rang out, from where in the hall Raef couldn’t be sure. “I call on Thorgrim of Balmoran!” A rustle of voices followed and the Great-Belly bowed his head in acceptance of the call, but this call was courtesy, Raef knew, a way of acknowledging the host. Thorgrim was a strong lord, but Raef’s father had explained during their journey to Balmoran that he likely did not truly aspire to be king. Rather he would hope to gain influence with the new king and was holding the gathering to promote his position—and gain valuable host gifts.

  The Great-Belly’s banner was hoisted into the rafters and silence ensued once more. This one was brief.

  “Uhtred of Garhold!”

  “Tormund of Darfallow!”

  “Andrik of Ver!”

  Three more banners flew upwards as servants scrambled to keep up with the flurry.

  “Too poor, too old, too disliked,” Einarr muttered just loud enough for Raef to hear. “Important men, but none would make a king. Worse, everyone knows it.” And so they waited for the first true candidate to be called.

  “Sigholf of Freywyn!”

  “Gudrik of Karahull!”

  A few shouts followed each name as men indicated their support but it wasn’t until a man offered “Fengar of Solheim!” and another “Torrulf Palesword” that waves of approval rolled through the crowd.

  A moment later, a voice called for Einarr of Vannheim and Raef felt a tremor of anticipation chill his skin as his father’s green and gold banner joined the others above them. That someone would call his father wasn’t a surprise, in fact Raef had
expected to hear it, but he had not expected the loud response of the crowd. Vannheim was well respected, he knew. But he had not let himself imagine his father could be king.

  Time passed, the calls died down to nothing and Raef raised his eyes to count the banners. “Fifteen,” he whispered to himself more than to the men beside him. “We will be at this for days.” A round of ale for every man followed and then the candidates gathered on the platform, the banners hanging stiff and proud above them. Besides his father, among them were two Raef knew personally, Brandulf Hammerling of Finngale, Vannheim’s neighbor to the north, and Hauk of Ruderk, whose lands lay far from the western sea. But more were strangers to him.

  One by one, each candidate consented or refused to stand. The ale and spirits were flowing freely by this point and cheers and shouting followed each acceptance. Only three men refused and these three were mocked and insulted, two more good-naturedly than the last, as their banners were lowered, leaving twelve in the rafters.

  The Great-Belly’s bludgeoner started up with his staff again, and a measure of silence was regained. “The first selections,” the Great-Belly said, gesturing to the men behind him. “We will resume tomorrow. Tonight we feast!” This was met with a roar of approval much louder than any lord had received. Platters of food emerged and the eager warriors set to work demolishing venison, suckling pig, and quail. Those who could not reach the long tables pushed their way forward to claim their portion and a careless man stood to be trampled if he delayed over a joint of venison for too long. Raef was content to move away from the table, letting the Vannheim warriors enter the feeding frenzy.

  A pair of warriors, tall, black-haired brothers, joined him at the rear of the hall. One, Asbjork, was licking grease from his fingers while ale sloshed over the rim of his cup. The other, Rufnir, was juggling a piece of flatbread, a leg of pheasant, and his own ale.