Count Not the Years

Aelfric held his elbows pinned to his sides, his face impassive. As king, he could never show weakness, never give such succor to his foes. Worse, it would worry his wife and shame his son. He would be strong for them.

Flete walked ahead, leading Aelfric's horse by the reins. "Not much farther."

"In distance-" Aelfric gathered his breath against the fire in his gut. "Not... not in time, not at the... pace you keep."

"If I had known a little spear poke would quench your boasting, I'd have tried it myself long ago."

"I've... had... worse."

Flete glanced over his shoulder at the wounded warrior. "Worse looking, perhaps."

The braids in Flete's beard, the handiwork of his latest lover, were rusty with blood. Aelfric's must have looked the same, if the gore stiffening his own was any measure. But wash his and it would show more gray than black. Flete's was as flaxen as the day they had met, his chest as broad, his sword as true. And a good thing it was, or the horse would have borne a corpse. Aelfric would die in battle, and with luck, find a place in the halls of the gods, but not yet, not while his son was still too young for the crown.

"In the warm south, Kings have armies to fight their foes," Flete said.

"Have you not... often said... my lands would-" The pain stole Aelfric's breath.

"Would not make a knight's holding? True enough. But while we can't raise many men in these boreal lands, those we do can fight."

A fresh spurt of blood surged from Aelfric's wound, strangely hot on his flesh. The woods darkened. "Night comes early," he whispered.

"It's still full day," said a voice that trickled from the ground like a spring.

"I said we were close," Flete said. "Honored Lilaea, King Aelfric begs your assistance."

Water bubbled before Flete's feet into the form of a young woman. She laid a transparent hand on Aelfric's side. "Traveler, set him with his feet within me," she said, before disappearing in a spray of cool, sweet mist.

#

Aelfric woke to the rustle of feathers, as a bird taking flight. He glimpsed a red heaven through dark tree branches.

His linen undershirt was dry and free of blood, though there was a gash in the cloth, less than a finger long. Beneath it, he felt a ridge of flesh on a wound not yet turned to scar, itchy but painless. His bare feet lay in soothing water.

Blood sky, black limbs. Was this the underworld? He scrambled to his feet, the hair on the nape of his neck standing.

The pool swirled and from it rose the liquid form of a woman, ruby in the sunset.

He stifled a gasp. No matter how often he visited the water spirit her eldritch ways always set him stomach fluttering.

"Honored Lilaea," he said, bowing. "No- no injury can stand before your arts. I promise the finest shrine in the West Kingdoms."

"Why do you wish to mar my grove with stones and cut wood? Are we not beautiful as you find us?"

"Beyond compare, fair Lilaea," Aelfric said, bowing again. "Then, I offer seven songs from the best skalds in the land."

Her laughter was like a running brook. "Music is much more fitting." On his brow, she laid her hand. "I declare your wounds mended."

Her touch, though cool and soothing, raised goose bumps. "Again, I am grateful, honored Lilaea."

Aelfric's hauberk and scabbard lay atop his folded cloak. His boots stood nearby. Fireflies chased cricket trills in the twilight wood. War seemed far away.

"If I may ask, Lady," Aelfric said. "Where is Flete?"

Lilaea's smile faded. "He took your horse to ride for news."

"Faithless Kastric died by my own hand. Flete knows this."

"Traveler seeks other tidings."

Aelfric shook his head. "An honest man should have only one name. Why do you call him Traveler?"

"That is the name he gave when first we met."

"He has always been Flete to me."

"It was long ago."

Fight enough battles and only the lucky remain but Flete's good fortune was legendary. Aelfric often wondered if his companion was a god in disguise. Could it be? No, the man was too earthy, too fond of frivolous things. Moreover, it was a dangerous thought, best left alone. And yet the idea could not be banished.

"How long?" Aelfric asked.

"You'd ask a woman such a question?" She smiled and cocked her hip, like a woman beckoning across the midsummer bonfire.

"You are much more than a woman, honored Lilaea, with no fear of age, disease, or even death."

"Of that you speak true. Charmed by the beauty of this pool, here I passed my life, and after death, the pool I have become. Such is the fate of those who can't let go of the living world."

Aelfric's scalp tingled at the presence of the eldritch being. Was she ghost or goddess? But the mysteries of her kind were for winter nights around the hearth. If Flete had reason to scout then all was not well.

"Do enemies walk my lands?"

"Battle is not my ken, King Aelfric. I cannot say."

"I must go after him."

"Alone? At night?"

"Some things brook no delay."

"Stay with me, give me a son. In the morning I shall send you on your way with your pick of the offerings held in my deeps."

Warmth flushed his cheeks and his loins stirred. Yet his marriage pledge was not meant to last only until someone more beautiful came along. "I cannot wait. My son and my queen may be in peril. Have you no news yourself?"

"I am this pool. What I know comes from visitors."

"Last year, you knew of my son's broken leg before I bore him here for healing."

Evident even in the murk, Lilaea's watery form turned cloudy, as a clod of mud tossed into a pond. "Sometimes the stream that flows from here speaks to me."

Aelfric's throat tightened. "What does he tell you?"

"I know only that there are bodies in the river that washes by your hall."

"Whose bodies?"

"He does not say. But... some are smaller than men."

"No!"

Aelfric snatched his gear.

"You will not give me a son before you leave?" Lilaea asked.

"My wife..."

"A queen must forgive a king's dalliances."

"Ever have I kept my troth. I will not break it now."

Lilaea's form faded into the earth. Had he offended her? If so, amends must wait.

As he donned his battle array, a plop came from the pool followed by a cascade of water. Lilaea emerged from her pond in the form of a woman of flesh, wearing a sheer gown plastered to flawless skin. In her arms, she bore a bundle of daggers, axes and swords. She knelt before him and spread them at his feet.

"You must fight?" she asked.

Aelfric snapped his head in curt assent.

"Do you recognize your own offerings among these?"

"Aye." He nudged a heavy, notched blade. "That's from my first kill. Beside it are two more given to assuage blood."

"You won't find a worthy blade among those of the vanquished." Lilaea rose to her feet. "But a few of these were the arms of victors."

Most of the weapons were like Aelfric's own offerings, fine enough blades, untainted by rust or rot but as notched and marked as the day triumphant warriors had cast them into Lilaea's waters. One blade stood out, unmarred and with a reddish light upon it, though there was little left of the sunset in the heavens.

"Is that Hrothan's sword?" Aelfric asked.

"He placed it within me, after he killed his last brother."

"Then it must be Sunburner, a blade of death and vengeance."

"A blade of fell omens. Take it."

Sunburner's flawless steel glistened with a glaze of blood. Aelfric tasted bile. When he stooped to examine it, he found no blood, only a fiery sheen on the blade. "You would entrust it to me?"

"You are god-watched. Its tale cannot but grow in your hands."

"Why do you say that?"

"While you lay sleeping, a raven perched on the log behind you."

"You say the All-father watches?"

"What skald would not claim it so?"

Aelfric grunted. "One who has seen the carrion birds picking over a battlefield." He knelt before Lilaea. Her scent was earthy and fresh, like a riverbank at spring's first greening. "I shall do what must be done and return Sunburner, if it is in my power."

"Hrothan found only sorrow with this blade, may you find better."

"You are worthy of renown, fair-" But Lilaea turned to water and poured into the ground. Aelfric took the blade from the pile. "Seven times seven songs for you, fair lady."

A red light swirled around his finger as he traced the valley of the perfectly formed fuller. Not a knick marred the edge. It had a simple hand guard and a stout half-moon pommel. It was made for killing, not hanging as an ornament from a rafter in a hall.

Sunburner thrummed in his hand. The blade thirsted for blood and this was good, for he could not hope that his family still lived, not if the stream had spoken true. He could imagine his wife and son floating on the river, sightless eyes staring to the heavens. Grief like a bear's crushing hug seized his chest. The woods around him shimmered through his welling tears. A cry of horror rose in his core, a scream that might never end. His wife and son, gone. He had failed them. Could he find their bodies? Could he make a pyre and take his place beside them? Might flames restore lost honor? No, that was a weakling's answer. He knew his wife. She was strong. Only vengeance would satisfy.

And what of Lilaea's offer? His blood raced at the memory of her near naked form. She was more beautiful than any woman he had ever known. And the thought of an heir to carry his name warmed his heart but not enough to smother the ache of his lost wife and son. He could not dally with the entrancing spirit. He would not slake his vengeance in an embrace that would betray both their memories. It was retribution, then the twilight halls of the underworld for him, if he was not there already.

He wrapped the glowing blade in his cloak and set out into the night.

#

A fog aglow with moonlight cloaked the woods. Half-rain, half-light, it was a between-time when ghosts pierced the veil. His son and wife, did they walk with him, flitting between the shadows beneath the oaks? Or was it he who had passed into the domain of shades?

He gripped the gifted-sword, still muffled. "Blood will flow, enough to quench even your flame, Sunburner."

"That it will." Flete stepped from behind a tree.

A fire burned in Aelfric's heart. Who was this man of many names? Was he traitor? "Hither-and-here you should be called. Always gone then back at a whim."

"Back when it matters."

"Have you returned to mock me?"

"I have returned to fight at your side. Kastric allied with the Wendols. His son and the Wendol prince led a band against us. They took your hall while we slew their fathers."

Despite inuring years of blood and death, a knot seized Aelfric's throat. "My- my queen and son..."

"Are in the halls of the gods."

"Tell me no lies! All I can hope is to feel my enemies' gore spray my face one last time. Then it's oblivion for me and my own."

"That will not be your fate, Aelfric. For the greatest warriors, there can be no defeat, only life among the battle-proven. And with their dear ones, or it would be a dreary place."

"How great is a warrior who can't protect his family? But I'm no downy cheeked lad facing his first battle. If you've visited the halls of the gods, speak the tale, else it's time for action, not words."

"Only the gods may pass from their halls to this realm. Do you accuse me? That's the end for me if I'm mortal, and for you if I'm not."

"If you'll draw blade with me one last time, I care not who you are or whence you go."

Flete smiled, a fell grin of half-bared teeth. "Your enemies know you live. They expect you will come for them. That is why they killed your queen and son. Grief-blind fury will not pierce their wards. Do you not want to gather your men for a proper assault?"

Aelfric unmasked Sunburner. Its red glow lit the fog. "Righteous fury will be enough."

Flete's eyes narrowed as his gaze traced the length of the blade. "Not if you want do to Kastric's line what he did to yours. But their vigil is not perfect: they think the river cliff unassailable. From there we can reach Kastric's spawn, if you don't mean to escape."

Sunburner flared.

"I will not see the dawn," Aelfric said.

"The night grows old yet there's time enough to strike from its bosom, if we hurry."

The two men set forth on their grim task.

#

Aelfric and Flete crawled over the cliff like two otters from the sea. Bone-white in the moonlight, the hall rose before them on its crag, an island in an ocean of fog that muted the river's song. The moisture raised the tang of a dwelling holding too many people and beasts. Slipping beneath the sour fumes were others, dearer: a fire gone to coals, the flowered perfumes of women, the hard sweat of men, and hounds-breath, grass-sharp. Unbidden, he saw the image of his queen at her loom, his son playing with toy spear and shield. He choked back a lump in his throat. Sorrow must wait.

Flete stood at Aelfric's side, his sword unsheathed, his breath no heavier than at the foot of the cliff. Was Flete a god? It might be no boon. The gods were fickle, dashing down the mighty to raise another for a time. Powerful, yes, but faithless if one listened carefully to the words of the skalds. Deceitful too, if Flete had hidden a divine nature from him.

A hall door cracked open. A man stepped from the darkness within and relieved himself. He caught Flete's knife in the throat, making no more than a gurgle as he slumped to the ground, breathing his life-blood.

Aelfric drew Sunburner from his cloak, bringing day to the night. He dashed through the door, his blade charring the lintel beam. Just inside, Sunburner separated a second man from his head. Lit only by wrathful fire, save for a dim glow at the hearth, the hall seemed a foreign place, and that it was without his retainers and family within. Warriors slumbered on the floor, their armor and shields arrayed atop benches at their side. This was no company sated on feast and song, laden with gift-rings: they slept with their spears.

"Blood will answer blood!" Aelfric yelled. He cast his gaze down the length of the pillared chamber. Where was his quarry?

Sunburner's wreath of fire guttered as Flete rushed past Aelfric. "Kill! His men will mark him out as they protect him!" Flete brained a prone man with a kick and sliced the shoulder from another.

Aelfric carved a path parallel to his companion as they fought toward the hearth. Heads and limbs flew before the two grim men. Blood spurted, screams climbed to the thatch. Sunburner's flame left a trail of fire, burning bedding and clothes, even the hard wood of pillar and bench took flame, no match for the heat of Aelfric's fury.

Amid shouts, the clatter of gear and the scrape of benches cast aside, two knots of men formed on either flank of the hearth stones. One would be around the Wendol leader, the other Kastric's whelp, but which? A gold boar on a helmet crest flashed in Sunburner's guttering light. The gold was clean and unmarked, the helmet of an unblooded warrior. Aelfric swung Sunburner in an arc before him. A wave of crackling flames rolled forth, scattering the nimble, setting the sluggish to shrieking death. A man barely to beard lay exposed, a snarl on his lips, a sword in his hand.

Aelfric leapt through a passing veil of smoke that stung his eyes. Sparks and embers flew as blade held blade for a moment, until Sunburner shattered the lesser and drove from collar bone deep into the prince's chest. It was too quick a death for all but the first hint of shock.

"Take him alive!" shouted a young man's voice in the quaver of rage. "He'll have the blood eagle for killing my father!"

Across the smoldering hearth, within the other ring of shield-warriors, a second young prince had called out.

"You, too, will die!" Aelfric cast another spray of flame.

With shields smoking, this time the foe-men held true to their liege. In the long hall, others rose to their duty and edged forward, brandishing glittering spears.

"To the prince!" yelled a heavy set man in a bearskin. "Protect lord Kastric's heir!"

Aelfric rushed the wall of men. Sunburner cleaved one shield, a back-slash ripped a throat. But the prince's men stood three deep and unyielding, willing to die for their ring-giver's heir.

Flete guarded Aelfric's right. Enemies hemmed them all around. Aelfric raised Sunburner for a mighty blow but before he could complete it, his mail coat drove through his ribs. As he fell, his heart rent, his eyes traveled up a familiar blade to find Flete's hand on the hilt. Darkness claimed Aelfric before he hit the floor.

#

Black fumes smoked from the walls of Aelfric's hall. On the ground, rushes floated on a lake of blood. The roof was in full flame. He picked his way among the corpses to stare into his wife's sightless eyes, her arm draped over their son, turned to her bosom. Her head lolled away, refusing his gaze. He had failed them both.

A boot splashed blood onto his wife's gown. It was the prince, Kastric's whelp, the one Aelfric had failed to kill. He swung his blade at the snickering youth but smoke drew round as flames consumed his hall.

It was a dim dawn. Vapors swirled among the charred timbers of his ruined hall. On the far side stood Flete, flanked by Aelfric's wife and son. The three beckoned to him. Aelfric's fury turned the gray world red. Flete had killed him. Flete was a traitor. How long had he been in the pay of Aelfric's enemies?

Aelfric leapt the distance in a single bound to land in an empty spray of ash. The trio had vanished. Figments? Ghosts?

Reason ran like water through his fingers in the land of dreams. He could feel, he could act but considered thought escaped him.

Turning back to the hall, he found it now smoldering ash, the timbers fallen. Foe-men picked through the ruin for treasure or perhaps for sign of a fallen companion. On the far side stood the prince, surveying his warriors at their work. Aelfric's life was not finished while that creature lived. He darted through the hall. A veil of smoke dropped from the heavens. When it lifted he stood before Flete.

"Deceiver!" Aelfric said.

"You did not deserve the blood eagle torture," Flete said. "Come with me, come to my hall in the high mountains where your wife and son await."

Doubt darkened Aelfric's sight. When it cleared, he looked into the prince's mocking eyes. The boy sprinted away. Aelfric ran after him.

"Leave these phantoms, come with me!" called Flete.

Aelfric could not abandon his quarry. He would have vengeance, against the prince, against the traitor Flete. He groped for the prince and found Sunburner in his hand. Now, he hacked his way through retainers in his burning hall, not yet razed.

Where was he? Why could he not slay his foe?

The dreams came and went, days turned to nights and together became seasons, but ever did the figments shift, always the prince just out of reach, always Flete and his family beckoned from the edge of nightmare. There was no rest, no possibility of relief. Flete was faithless, his wife and son illusions. He would kill the prince, then he would seek oblivion, justice before peace.

In time, the visions grew thin, as a cloud in the blue sky burned to nothing by summer's sun. He could not find the prince. He could not reach his family.

"Come to me," Flete said but his voice was as faint as the rustle of leaves on the wind. Then all stilled.

#

Aelfric stood on the crag that once held his hall. Charred beams lay mantled in browning grass. Saplings, leaves turned to crimson and scarlet, thrust higher than man-height. A few patches of fire-baked earth remained to mark the boundaries of his lost king's-stead. At the foot of the hill, the village buildings stood with open doorways and windows, crowned by silvery thatch gone to moss and weeds. The people had fled, harried by a wailing ghost, a ghost that haunted his own dreams... was he that phantom? As a memory of memories he recalled pursuing the figment of the prince through the hall and into the town below.