The Hills of Home (The Song of the Ash Tree Book 2) (30 page)

TWENTY-EIGHT

T
he stars turned
overhead and still the smoke flourished above the village.

Raef watched, waited, desperate to change the dark fate that had crept up behind him and settled over his home, unwilling to look away. Whether he waited for a sign of life or for Isolf to come for him and bring death, he could not say. The cold seeped into him, but he did not feel it. The wind whispered that he should flee while he had the chance, but he did not heed it.

It was only when Vakre’s breathing, shallow and weak as it was, went silent that Raef tore his gaze from the walls around his home.

“No, no,” Raef murmured, fighting the panic that rose in his throat, his hands hovering over Vakre’s chest. “Do not leave me here alone.” The silence dragged out and then at last Vakre’s ribcage rose once more and a shaky breath slipped out into the cold air. In his relief, Raef pressed his lips to Vakre’s forehead. “I must not let you die,” he whispered.

With purpose steadying his heart and his mind, Raef got to his feet and went to the horse that had carried him from danger. The mare was unknown to him, ridden into battle by a traitor who wanted to drive the line of Skallagrim from the Vestrhall. But she was strong and clear-eyed, and Raef was grateful to find a blanket rolled behind the saddle. He pulled it free, then led the horse close to Vakre’s body, rubbing her nose as he went. “You must be sure-footed, friend,” he said. “The burden you will carry is all I have left in this world.”

Raef knelt once more next to Vakre to check that his makeshift bandage held. It was poor but he had nothing better. He adjusted the knot and brushed sweat from Vakre’s forehead. “No way but forward now,” he said. “Just like Siv’s story of Lisgothmir.” Raef closed his eyes, remembering the remains of the burned ship on the beach. He knew now in his heart who had abandoned it. Opening his eyes, he lifted Vakre from the ground and managed to settle him onto the horse, then swiftly pulled himself up before Vakre could fall. He shifted Vakre’s weight until it rested against his chest, wrapped the blanket around Vakre’s torso, and took up the reins. “She was right. Isolf had to show his men that there was no going back, that they would take the Vestrhall or die trying.”

Raef took one last look toward his home, wondering when he would see it again, then turned the mare east and urged her deeper into the trees. “You did not trust him,” Raef murmured, his mouth close to Vakre’s ear, “and I should have listened. Everything was a lie.”

He was not without friends. Kolbrand, Finnolf’s father, would shelter him without a thought for his own safety and his home was not far. But thoughts of Kolbrand reminded Raef that Finnolf was dead, and Tolla and her sister, if they had not perished in the fires, were at Isolf’s mercy. He did not have the will to face their father.

There was Axsellund. His new, untested ally. But the journey to Torleif’s hall was too far for Vakre and Isolf might think to look for him there.

Others in Vannheim would gladly take him in. His childhood friends, the brothers Rufnir and Asbjork. Svanja’s aging father, Beomir. Countless warriors who had bled with his father and again with him, who were loyal to the name of Skallagrim. Josurr, bound now to Raef’s fortunes, would not hesitate. But Raef feared what Isolf might do to those he suspected of aiding Raef, even for one night. He would not risk it.

There was one place he could go. One place Isolf would not know to look. There, he could gather fierce-hearted friends. There, Vakre would have time to heal. There, he could hone his fury and his sorrow into a weapon against Isolf’s betrayal.

Raef glanced to the dark sky and the stars burning bright above the silhouettes of the trees.

“Odin. Allfather. Give me time,” he whispered. “Darkness is coming, I know. But I must do this, not for myself, but for those who died for me this night. Before Fenrir comes for you, before the stars begin to fall and the sun and moon vanish, caught up in the jaws of wolves, I will bring death to Isolf Valbrand and I will take back what is mine.” The trees were still, the forest quiet. The very earth was listening. “And then I will go to the fate that awaits me, the fate even you cannot name, Allfather. I will go with a glad heart. Only give me time.”

There was no answer, but Raef did not need one. He had only one way forward. Vakre shivered against his chest as the grey mare snorted out hot breath, and then the forest swallowed them into its heart.

List of Characters

Raef Skallagrim, lord of Vannheim

Alfheim

Aerath, troubled

First Guardian

Second Guardian, tricksy

other Guardians: the kind one, the angry one, the strong one, and the forgettable one

Finnoul, dreamer

Ylloria, never smiles

Annun

Thannor

Lorcan, sees much, despite missing an eye

J
ö
tunheim

Mogthrasir, giant, not too clever

Hrodvelgr, giant, much more clever

Skjaldi, a dying, forgotten man

Bara, giantess, one of the nine daughters of Aegir, a sea god

Svanja, a memory

Odin, Allfather

Vannheim

Eadilwif, a curious child

Brunn, her father, a fisherman

Sigrid, her mother

Skarfi, Brunn’s brother

Hollof, misplaced some sheep

Isolf Valbrand, Raef’s cousin

Aldrif, healer

Fylkir, priest of Odin, cantankerous

Josurr, priest of Odin

Gudrik, skald, warrior, cripple, disheartened

Tulkis Greyshield, clings to the past

Rudrak Red-beard, a vulture

Snorren Thoken, another vulture

Finnolf Horsebreaker, captain

Eira, Raef’s lover, a shieldmaiden

Siv, a shieldmaiden

Vakre Flamecloak, half god, son of Loki

Beomir, Svanja’s father

Dvalarr the Crow, kingmaker

Hoyvik, smith at the Vestrhall

Ulli, steward at the Vestrhall

Yorkell, captain, sent in search of vultures

Ergil Thrainson, a boy seeking vengeance

Grandmother, an artist

Uhtred, lord of Garhold

Aelinvor, his daughter

Lingorm, a captain of Silfravall

Kolbrand, Finnolf’s father, breeder of horses and hunting dogs

Tolla, Finnolf’s youngest sister, more horse than girl

Hauk, lord of Ruderk

Edvard, Brandulf Hammerling’s illegitimate son

Off
Stage

Brandulf Hammerling, lord of Finngale, Raef’s former ally

Fengar, lord of Solheim

Tyrlaug of Innrivik, deceased grandfather to Isolf and Raef

Brynvald of Kolhaugen, the last king, deceased

Torleif, lord of Axsellund

Sverren Redtail, lord of Bergoss

Harbjorn, lord of Silfravall

About the Author

T L Greylock is the author of
The Song of the Ash Tree
trilogy, consisting of
The Blood-Tainted Winter
,
The Hills of Home
, and the forthcoming conclusion,
Already Comes Darkness
.

She can only wink her left eye, jumped out of an airplane at 13,000 feet while strapped to a Navy SEAL, had a dog named Agamemnon and a cat named Odysseus, and has been swimming with stingrays in the Caribbean.

P.S. One of the above statements is false. Can you guess which?

www.tlgreylock.com

@TLGreylock

@tl_greylock

Look out for the conclusion to
The Song of the Ash
Tree

Already Comes Darkness

ONE

T
he hounds came
with the sun.

The day had dawned in shadow, the skies cluttered with writhing clouds, but at last the sun broke through following close on the breath of a stiff winter wind. The horse swiveled its ears, nostrils wide, at the first notes of the chorus, and Raef, cupped hands spilling the icy water before it reached his mouth, sprang to his feet. For a moment, he was as rooted as the bare oaks that towered above him as he sought to pinpoint their direction. The strong, eager voices of the hunters rose and fell on the air, and though at first they seemed to call from every corner of the world, Raef closed his eyes and soon knew they were yet behind. They had not flanked him. But it was only a matter of time.

Raef looked to Vakre, who sat limp and listless in the saddle, his face pale and slick with sweat. His eyes were open, but the fevered gaze gave no sign that he heard the hounds. He would not survive a fight. Raef wrapped the reins in Vakre’s hands as securely as he could, then slapped his palm to the horse’s flank, sending the grey mare reeling through the trees and leaving Raef alone with only his thudding heart and the knowledge that he might have sent his friend away to die. Turning east, Raef began to run in a desperate attempt to lead the hunters away.

His path was perilous and steep, the snow masking jagged spurs of rock, slick ground giving way beneath his boots. He sprinted when he could and crawled when he had to, but always he went up, and when he gashed his hand on a splintered tree trunk, he let the blood drip freely to mark his trail. The hounds would follow, but their progress would slow and the men that trailed after would have to abandon their horses and continue on foot.

The voices of the pack rose and fell, and more than once they went silent for stretches of time that dragged on Raef’s nerves. But always they returned and he drew strength from the knowledge that it was his trail they followed, not Vakre’s. Raef forced himself to focus on his pace and each stride as he pushed onward while the bright winter sun slid across the sky. Sweat dripped from his nose and his lungs began to burn with each breath of cold air that he drew in. The swords, his and Vakre’s, banged against his legs, and his long cloak caught on the rough ground. He risked no glances behind, his mind bent only on moving forward.

The sun was sinking behind him, spilling his shadow across the snow, when he broke through the tree line and emerged onto the open slopes of the high hills. Behind and below him, the fjord was a dark snake, stark against the snow-covered slopes, stretching west to the hall he had lost and the sea beyond. Ahead and above, the darkening sky loomed. If he could reach the stones before losing the sun to the sea, the dark cloak of night would be his ally. Raef pushed on, ignoring his protesting legs, and climbed a rocky outcrop to gain his first look at his pursuers.

In the low light of dusk, there was little to see. All was grey and white and purple shadows, but, his skull thudding with rushing blood as he fought to slow his breathing, Raef picked out movement here and there. Two, three, six men. Perhaps more. As many dogs, though the swift-legged hounds were harder to spot even as the trees thinned around them. He could not fight them all. Taking a deep breath, Raef turned away and ran on, making his way toward a narrow spot between two peaks.

The statues were silent sentries under a deep blue sky and the light of the first stars by the time he arrived at the saddle between the peaks and stumbled upon the ring of stones. In daylight, Raef knew, the faces would stare down at him with bleak stone eyes, carved by ancient, unknown hands. Now, in darkness, they were only black shapes blotting out the stars.

The snow was thick here and Raef skirted the edge of the ring of statues until he stood between the eastern most pair, one, a woman who faced away from the rest, her gaze turned to await the rising sun, and the other, a stern man wielding an axe as tall as Raef. There Raef remained, letting the hunters come to him as the wind banished the last of the clouds, revealing the pale face of the moon.

The dogs came first, bounding through the deep snow as they finished the ascent. The men lagged behind, but the moonlight did nothing to hide Raef and a voice, heavy with ragged breaths, called the dogs off. The men slowed their pace and approached on foot, hungry eyes pinned on Raef. They were seven in number and sure of victory.

“Did you really think we would not catch you, Skallagrim? We would not hunt you down?” One man led the rest and Raef’s heart burned with fury at the sight of him. “And this is how you have chosen to die. Here in the wild, a fugitive on the land your family ruled for more than five hundred years, without a friend to watch your back.” Tulkis Greyshield spat in the snow. “At last the Greyshields will reclaim their rightful place. My sons will carry on our name while yours turns to dust and is wiped from memory.”

“You are wrong, Tulkis.” The arduous climb was but a distant memory, the exhaustion that had crept up on Raef for three sleepless nights was pushed away, forgotten. Raef put a hand on the hilt of his sword and felt the familiar anticipation of battle swell within him. This was blade-work, this was the steel song, and though the numbers called for his death, he knew he would not be the first to die.

Greyshield let out a barking laugh. “About what?”

“Everything. Your sons will die this night,” Raef said, nodding at the young, freshly-bearded warriors who flanked Tulkis, “and I am not without friends.”

Two of the warriors behind Tulkis glanced beyond the circle of statues, wary now of every shadow.

“Your friend? The one on the horse?” Greyshield’s smile burrowed into the knot in Raef’s stomach. “We have him, or will soon enough.” Raef said nothing and Tulkis, grinning still, gestured to the axe-wielding statue at Raef’s right. “Will he fight for you, Skallagrim? Will he strike us down with a single blow?”

“Even now, Isolf is sitting in my father’s chair, Tulkis, tightening his grip on Vannheim. You will never have it.”

“Vannheim or Garhold, it matters not.”

Raef wanted to laugh. “If you think you will have Garhold, then you do not know Uhtred’s daughter.”

“The lady Aelinvor will do as she is told.”

Now Raef did laugh, a bitter, scornful sound. “She craves power and helped murder her father to grasp it. She will not bend to you.” Raef was glad to see a flicker of uncertainty in Greyshield’s eyes, but words would do nothing to alter the situation.

“Kill him, father,” one of the sons said. Raef could see fear in this one’s eyes, fear masked by eager words.

“No, father, let me drain his life’s blood.” The other son was shorter and smaller than his brother, but his eyes were alive with the promise of bloodshed.

“Better yet, let me fight you both.” Raef spread his arms wide, inviting them in. “I will gut you as Finnvold Skallagrim did Thannulf Greyshield. You are boys still clinging to your mother’s skirts, so weak the Valkyries will never carry you to Valhalla.”

The brothers moved together, snarling and cursing Raef and all his ancestors, swords drawn. They raced into the ring of statues and Raef let them come.

Three strides later, they were screaming and the snow was bright with slick blood as the sons of Tulkis Greyshield impaled themselves on sharp stakes buried beneath the snow. The false cover of skins and branches broke and vanished, revealing the pit that stretched to the feet of the silent, stone onlookers.

Tulkis was as still as the statues, his mouth gaping as he watched his sons die. One went quickly, for he had caught a stake in the throat, and his corpse sagged into the snow. The other, the second, younger son who had been so eager to kill, writhed still, legs jerking, blood coursing from his mouth and seeping out around the stake buried in his belly. His screams turned to shuddering moans of agony, but he lingered and the smell of urine reached Raef, but he had eyes only for Tulkis.

The shock and horror frozen there thawed into rage and Tulkis’ roar of anger drowned out the cries of his dying son. “I will cut off your cock and feed it to the crows, Skallagrim. I will flay you and make you eat your own skin. You will sob for death before I am done with you.”

Raef kept his voice even. “You spoke true, Tulkis. Here in the wild we are and I am alone. But the wild is mine.” Raef stepped behind the stony-faced woman who looked to the east and circled around to the north, every step taking him closer to Tulkis and the four warriors with him. He had hoped the pit might claim three, or even four, warriors, for now he was left with five men to fight, but seeing Tulkis watch his sons be ripped from him was worth it. He drew his sword in his left hand and the axe in his right, reveling in the calm their sharp edges brought to his mind.

“Greet the corpse maidens for me, Greyshield. I will send you to Valhalla.”

Tulkis charged and his first swing was full of power and wrath, meant to slash Raef open across the ribs. He jumped back, the steel passing by harmlessly, and countered with a lunge of his own that Tulkis only just deflected away, heaving his sword back around in time to keep Raef’s blade from burying itself in his gut, but the axe that followed was too quick and Tulkis could not prevent it from biting into his shoulder. Bellowing, Tulkis stumbled back, nearly falling in the deep snow, and Raef pressed on. The swords clashed again, Tulkis keeping his sword arm raised despite the fresh wound, but the snow claimed Greyshield’s balance and Raef’s next swing cleaved into his ribs, splitting flesh and splintering bone with ease. Tulkis dropped to his knees, his eyes staring, mouth hanging open, and he did not move, did not try to defend himself as Raef’s axe came to rest against his neck. Blood began to spill from his lips, streaking down his beard, but their eyes locked, hatred and fury blazing in Tulkis’ face. With a short, brutal chop, Raef hacked the axe into Tulkis’ neck and watched the eyes dull, the skin grow slack, and then Raef knew Greyshield was dead. Wrenching his weapons from the body, Raef let it fall backward so the dead eyes might stare at the stars. Only then did he face the four remaining warriors, his heart heaving with the battle-lust.

Two were faces he knew, men who had fought with him at the burning lake. He focused on them.

“So ends the line of Greyshield. Would you suffer the same fate, Olaf? Or you, Hakon? If you fight me now, I will kill you and hunt down your children and my blade will know the taste of their flesh. Is this what you want, to die a traitor, unremembered by the gods?”

Olaf looked down to the snow as though he might find an answer or his courage buried there, but Hakon grimaced, his lips tugged sideways by an old scar, and Raef knew he would have to kill at least one more man that night.

“I broke an oath once, lord,” Hakon said, “when I took mead from Greyshield’s hand and drank for him. I will not break another, even if it means my death.”

“You would stand by a dead traitor?”

Hakon shrugged. “It is all I have left, lord. What am I if I beg for my life now?”

“Then draw your sword.”

There was grit and determination in Hakon’s eyes, but also a measure of resignation. He was a strong man, and tall, but made for chopping trees and hauling loads, not battle. He had never been a skilled warrior, and Raef wondered what had tempted him to Greyshield’s side, but found he did not wish to ask.

It was over quickly and Hakon fell not far from where the hounds crouched, whimpering now as the scent of the blood of men filled their nostrils. Olaf fell to his knees and begged Raef to spare him, or if not him, his wife and children. The other two warriors, unknown men from Silfravall, said nothing, though one fidgeted with his hands. He made a half-hearted attempt to draw his knife, but Raef hurled his axe and it sank deep into the man’s chest. He fell heavy and hard and did not move again. The other warrior paled and Raef could see the fight had left his eyes.

“Go,” Raef said, weary now, but his voice still sharp with anger. “Run, run back to my traitorous cousin. Tell Isolf he will never be free of me.”

Olaf and the other man turned their backs and fled, the hounds at their heels, and Raef watched them tread the snow-sea until they disappeared down the slope. Only then did he allow himself to expel a deep breath, and he sank against the closest statue, resting his head between his knees, his cloak pulled tight against the wind.

The lone howl of a wolf jerked him awake. A quick glance at the moon told him he had not slept long, but it was not safe to linger. Rest could come when he was better sheltered. Raef hauled himself to his feet and walked to the edge of the pit that had claimed the sons of Greyshield. The bodies were stiff and cold and looked younger in death. With silent thanks to Odin, Allfather, Raef turned his back and began the descent, fixed now on finding Vakre, if the son of Loki lived.