The Song of the Ash Tree 03 - Already Comes Darkness

by T L Greylock

  Grass Crown Press

  Copyright © 2017 T L Greylock

  Cover design by Damonza

  Map by Gillis Björk

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-9965366-7-7

  For A & R, who gave me books.

  Already comes darkness, | and ride must we

  To Valhall to seek | the sacred hall.

  Hyndluljoth, Poetic Edda

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  LIST OF CHARACTERS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ONE

  The 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, icy water spilling through his cupped fingers, sprang to his feet. Dead, dry leaves clinging to the branches of the aspens towering above him whispered as he sought to pinpoint the direction of the barking and baying. 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 burned with each breath of cold air 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 ground of the high hills. Behind and below him, the fjord was a black 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 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 Raef picked out movement here and there as he fought to slow his breathing and his skull thudded with rushing blood. 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 wondered if Isolf led them, or if his traitorous cousin had sent other men to hunt him. It made no difference; 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 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 light of the first stars.

  The snow had formed drifts around the base of each statue and Raef skirted the edge of the ring until he stood between the eastern most pair, a woman who faced away from the rest, her gaze turned to await the rising sun, and 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 as they approached, 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 my 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 left. “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, who had eyes only for Tulkis.

  The shock and horror frozen on Tulkis’s face thawed into rage and his 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 watched the eastern horizon and circled around to the north, every step taking him closer to Tulkis and his remaining companions. 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 chest. 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 into a snowdrift, 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’s face. With a short, brutal chop, Raef hacked the axe into Tulkis’s 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, Olarr? 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?”

  Olarr 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. Olarr 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, pivoting in the snow, 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 fleeing from his eyes.

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

  Olarr 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. He pulled his axe from the dead man’s chest and wiped the blood from its edge. 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.

  TWO

  The tracks were not hard to find. Three sets of horse prints in the snow, all headed south from the place where Raef had separated from Vakre. Dawn was breaking in the east, golden light filtering through the valleys, as Raef picked and ate a handful of tart, frost-dusted berries and began to follow the tracks. His stomach raged for sustenance, as it had often since Raef had fled from the smoke and the death and the sound of Isolf’s voice carrying through the darkness, but Raef had little to offer it. He had no bow with which to hunt the rabbits that crossed his path, or the deer whose tracks he had followed to water, and he hungered for meat. He did not have the time to linger over traps that might catch nothing. But it was Vakre he worried about. Vakre needed warmth and food and care that Raef could not provide.

  For two days, Raef had led the horse through the trees, winding among the hills he knew so well, the hills that wer
e no longer his. Their progress was halting, slowed by Vakre’s wound, but Raef had found relief in the need to care for his friend, for it kept the other thoughts at bay, the thoughts that threatened to steal away with Raef’s resolve to endure. Even so, he could not banish the sights and sounds from that night outside the walls of the Vestrhall, the battle, the treachery of Isolf, the loss of Siv, the deaths of Finnolf, valiant Finnolf, and steadfast Uhtred, the village burning, always burning. And Hauk of Ruderk, within his reach, and yet he had been unable to strike down his father’s murderer. He saw it all again in the bitter, dark hours of the nights while Vakre slept a fever sleep. In the daylight hours, he buried his grief and trudged onward.

  It was midday when Raef caught the scent of fire. The grey mare had continued south at first, but then her steps had taken her back toward the fjord, and where she went, the two other sets of tracks followed. Raef hurried on, passing a long-abandoned farm, and then coming to the shore of the fjord. He followed the water until he reached the jutting spit of land that marked the joining of the small, southern arm of the fjord to the main body. The burned air was sharp, biting at Raef’s nostrils, and the bodies had already attracted a pair of crows.

  The corpses were sprawled close to the shore, stretched out on the great, flat rocks that divided land from water. One would be carried away by the high tide. Both were black and charred, split open as a sausage would when held over a fire. Their faces were beyond recognition though one wore three arm rings, loose now over the shrunken flesh and white, exposed bone. When the tide carried him away, the silver rings would slip to the depths, prizes for the fish to fight over. The other had drawn his sword in the moment of death and the blade now gleamed in the bright sun as water lapped at its edge. A horse was there too, its grey coat unblemished by burns, but its fate made clear by the arrows that bristled from its neck and the dark stain that spread onto the snow. A single pair of footprints, a man’s, led away from the carnage and back into the trees.