The Hills of Home (The Song of the Ash Tree Book 2)
Read The Hills of Home (The Song of the Ash Tree Book 2) Online
Authors: T L Greylock
For H&H, who knew how to
live.
I learned it from men, | the men so
old,
Who dwell in
the hills of
home
.
Harbarthsljoth, Poetic
Edda
Contents
ONE
T
he winter sea
was thick with foam and the air was sharp with brine. Waves crashed against the rocky shore, sending the salt spray leaping to the clouds. Gulls wheeled in the sky, buoyed by the gusty air, their cries calling their brothers and sisters to join the dance.
It was their eyes that saw the sail on the horizon, saw the ship valiantly riding on the rough seas to make the shore. The sail was the black of a starless, moonless night and the dragonhead prow, the color of blood, barred sharp teeth.
Only the gulls saw the ship reach land, saw the hooded figures jump into the shallows and splash to shore, hauling the ship onto the sand and snow behind them. One figure lingered a moment and when he, too, jumped from the prow of the ship, the oil-slick deck flared and hungry flames leapt up behind him, eating through the dry tinder, charring the oars. Sparks soared into the air and at last the sail burned bright.
On the snow-strewn shore, the sailors watched the ship burn. The gulls circled overhead until the smoke drove them away but the watchers remained until the ship was wreathed in flames. Only then did they turn their backs to the sea and, as they ventured further onto land, the wind threatening to tear their cloaks away, no one was there to witness.
TWO
R
aef looked to
the horizon, as far west as west goes, and for a moment imagined he could see the ocean. The high peaks and deep valleys, the rushing rivers and sun-speckled forests that lay between him and the salt shore of Vannheim vanished as his mind, far ahead of his body, raced across the distance and brought him to rest. Home. If he closed his eyes, he would see it all before him but Raef kept his gaze on the cloud-streaked sky over the high moors of Axsellund. Tomorrow, they would reach Vannheim soil and Raef would step foot on it as the lord of Vannheim for the first time.
Night would be upon them soon, and Raef looked back to the east to the sliver of rising moon. It hovered over a cliff face, suspended just above a waterfall, a delicate boat on the verge of tumbling over. Another night, another moon rise. Raef tried not to wonder if it was the last, but he could not help but imagine the wolf, Hati, chasing the moon, his slavering teeth drawing ever closer, his hot breath befouling the air. For eighteen days Raef had watched for the dawn and for eighteen days he had seen the night sky grow light, the tendrils of pink and orange announcing the arrival of Sol and her chariot. Raef cherished those golden rays slipping over the horizon each morning.
“The moon will rise again tomorrow, Raef. And the sun after him.” The voice was Gudrik’s. The poet limped to Raef’s side, wincing with every step, leaning on a stout pine stave. They had spoken of this before.
“How can we know?” Raef took his gaze from the moon and looked at Gudrik.
“When the gods battle for the fate of all nine worlds, it is not a small thing. We will know. And there is much that will happen before that final battle begins.”
“So it is said. But I hear Thor’s fury when I sleep at night and I see the bolts of his anger and grief behind my eyelids. The storm that heralded Balder’s death still echoes within me.” Raef shook his head. “How is your leg?”
“Much the same. The pain is less, thanks to the herbs we found at the last farm, but it is rest my body needs to heal.”
“When we reach my home, you will have all the rest and care you need.”
Gudrik grinned. “I shall grow fat and lazy.”
Raef laughed and watched his small party set up camp by the waterfall’s pool. Vakre was tying the horses. Siv and two men were encouraging a young fire. They were only twenty in number, the last of the Vannheim warriors to return home from the great battle of the burning lake, the battle that had brought the Valkyries down to Midgard, that had seen the defeat of the Palesword and Freyja’s deathless host. After six days of travel, when he was certain Brandulf Hammerling’s wrath was not hounding their steps, Raef had sent the rest ahead to bring word of their arrival and remained behind to travel at a pace more suited to Gudrik’s broken leg. Raef looked back to the west.
“See those twin peaks?” Raef gestured to a pair of barren hills settled between the higher granite summits of their neighbors. Gudrik nodded in response. “That is where we will enter Vannheim.” Raef knew the place well for it was the most accessible passage into Vannheim from the east. A smooth approach, not too steep. The ground beneath the snow was easy to travel by horse or foot, free of the fallen rocks and boulders that cluttered so many of the lower slopes to the north and south. He had stood at that spot between the hills with his father more than once, the wind blowing at their backs. The first time, he had been a small boy and it seemed to him the edge of the world, for he had never yet ventured far from the Vestrhall. Later, as the rugged hills and vast forests of Vannheim had become a second home to him, Raef had come to that place between the hills alone. Sometimes he imagined himself a great hero, the last defender of Vannheim against a horde of invading warriors, and he had held that gap single-handedly to save his people. Other times he simply watched and listened to the world around him and he came to know the feel of the breeze as it curled up the slope beneath him, the silence of the streaking eagles as they dove from the sky to snatch their prey from above, the path the sun took in high summer, and the sound of spring rain falling on dry winter grass.
Raef could feel his heart beat a little faster in his chest as thoughts of home swelled in his mind. They would rise early, with the sun, and they would reach the narrow, swift stream before midday. After crossing it, they would climb, first through thick trees before rising above the tree line and coming to the gap. And then he would be home and at last he could put his mind to the vengeance he had sworn to have. His father’s murderer was yet unnamed, no more than a shadow, and duty, honor, and blood demanded retribution. How he might discover the source of the treachery that ended with Einarr Skallagrim’s death, Raef did not know. But time was against him. The Hammerling would bring the war to Vannheim, justified by Raef’s desertion after the battle of the burning lake. And soon Heimdall would blow his great horn, summoning the warriors in Valhalla, the Einherjar, to the last battle, and the nine realms would fall first into chaos and then darkness and oblivion. He would be the last Skallagrim to sit in the high chair in the Vestrhall. But if the gods might grant him the chance to see his vow fulfilled, to see Einarr avenged, he would take it.
A hand brushed against his shoulder and Raef turned to see Eira at his side. He began to point to the peaks as he had done with Gudrik, but her eyes showed that her mind was elsewhere. She took his hand and led him away from the lookout and around the pool until Raef felt the spray of the waterfall on his face. There she dropped his hand, unclasped the bronze pin that kept her cloak in place, and kicked off her boots. Raef watched her while she dipped a toe into the water. She grimaced, the cold water giving her second thoughts, and Raef took advantage of her hesitation, grabbed her around the waist, and jumped into the pool.
The water cut off Eira’s shriek, but she surged to the surface ready to fight, her eyes now dark and determined. Raef, laughing, checked her wild swing and pulled her close to him. He kissed her and felt the tension leave her limbs.
“Come,” he whispered, “the water is too cold.”
“Catch me,” she said. Wriggling free, Eira burst from the pool and dashed into the trees, pausing once to see if he followed. Raef, laughing again, raced after her, his eyes on her wet hair, dark and glistening in the moonlight. She was quick, though, and he lost sight of her between the heavy branches. Stopping, Raef listened for a moment and then, hearing rustling to his right, turned to follow the sound. He called her name once, aware that his own wet clothes were a danger to him. Her game, and his willingness to play it, was risky on a cold winter night. Pain in his side caused Raef to pull up. The ribs that had broken in the battle throbbed, awoken by his exertion. Clenching his teeth and holding his hand to his side, Raef leaned against a tree until the pain was more bearable.
“Eira,” he called. “Let us be done with this.” His ribs flared again and Raef bit his lip against the pain. He closed his eyes and listened for any sign of Eira, but the forest was quiet. The cold caught up with him, and Raef began to shiver, his soaking clothes clinging to him. Cursing the persistent ache in his side, Raef pushed off the tree and began to retrace his steps back to the others, all desire chased away by the cold and the dizziness that threatened to overtake him.
He had not gone far when a sound behind him caused him to turn and look. His eyes saw nothing, but he sensed someone was there. “Enough, Eira.” He continued on, hunched over, his arms clutched across his ribcage as though they might still the fire that raged in his bones. The noise came again, but this time Raef ignored it, no longer in the mood for games.
When it came a third time and still Eira did not show herself, Raef stopped, alert now. He drew the longer of the two knives on his belt, the only weapons he had. The broken axe, nearly useless, was wrapped in his blanket at the camp and he had not yet found a replacement for his shattered sword. Raef’s gaze darted among the trees and once he thought he saw a shadowy figure just outside his vision. When he turned to face it, there was nothing.
The rope slipped over Raef’s head and was around his neck before he could protect himself. His hands came up, scrabbling uselessly, and he twisted hard to his left, trying to throw his attacker off balance, but whoever held the rope was prepared and did not falter. Desperate for breath, Raef lashed out behind him with his knife but the blade only sliced through empty air. Still Raef flailed as his vision darkened, but his strength began to fail and he slumped to the ground, the knife falling into the snow at his feet. His attacker let him fall but the rope remained tight. The snow seemed to rise up to meet Raef’s face, and then all was dark.
