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

by T L Greylock

  Raef raised a hand, acknowledging his misstep. “You speak true. But does it not trouble you to know that he did not trust you with details of his journey? Has he not forsaken the ties that bind him to you and you to him? When you pledged yourself to Odin, Fylkir became your sacred teacher. Has he not abandoned you? Has he not left your training unfinished?”

  The mask had slipped again as Raef spoke, slowly, like warm wax, and Raef could see the uncertainty that hid beneath. Uncertainty and pent up bitterness. He shifted his approach.

  “You are good with children, Josurr. Patient. Gentle. Firm. Perhaps I am wrong, but is it not time for you to take an apprentice? Are you not of age?” Raef paused and gestured to the cave. “But I forgot, there can only be two.” Raef shrugged as though it meant little to him and brought a bunch of dried lavender to his nose, inhaling deeply while Josurr squirmed.

  The priest broke his silence at last. “You will find boys for me to choose from? No older than ten,” Josurr went on, the words tumbling out now. “Six or seven should be enough. Clever, but with flexible minds, and parents of good standing.”

  Raef smiled and spread his arms. “You shall have them.” He strode to Josurr’s side and clapped a heavy hand on the priest’s shoulder. “I will make it known that wise Josurr is searching for his student.” Raef made a show of scanning the cave. “Your pallets are looking worn. I will have fresh ones sent to you. New furs, the best mead in my hall.” He looked to Josurr. “Do you like honey? I can have a hive of bees brought here after the spring thaw.” Raef frowned. “And Hoyvik will make you a new set of knives, of course. I will have him fit some fine pearls into the handles. It will please Odin, no?” Raef smiled wide once more.

  “And in return?” There was no reluctance in Josurr’s voice, only acknowledgement of the yoke Raef was placing on his shoulders.

  Raef’s smile vanished. “You will lift up the name of Skallagrim. You will find signs of the Allfather’s favor in the blood of a goat or a doe or a hare, or whatever pleases you. And you will speak of it.”

  “It will be done.”

  “Then tell me now, did Fylkir speak to you of Rudrak Red-beard?”

  Josurr shook his head. “It is as you said. He left, confiding nothing, violating his sacred duty.”

  To know that the priest was still unaccounted for, that he might have made the nidstang for Rudrak Red-beard and then, after that traitor’s death, gone in search of another who would rise against the name of Skallagrim, was disconcerting, but Raef was pleased to have broken through Josurr’s righteousness and composed exterior to expose the resentment he harbored for his belligerent teacher.

  “Then let us share a drink in Odin’s name,” Raef said.

  Josurr scowled, all pretense of serenity forgotten. “He drank all the ale.”

  Raef’s laughter filled the cave and Josurr’s grimace twisted into a wry smile. Raef clasped the priest’s forearm. “Another time. My hall is open to you.”

  Raef said farewell to his unexpected new ally and returned to the Vestrhall, his mind circling between thoughts of Fylkir, loose and unpredictable, capable of brewing turmoil within his lands, and the need to forge alliances with forces outside Vannheim, forces that would remain loyal when Brandulf Hammerling or Fengar brought the war into the west.

  Shutting himself in his father’s chamber, he pulled out the great map his father had kept and poured over the lands, near and far, wondering where he might find allies for the war. Karahull, perhaps. It had been Raef’s words, not the Hammerling’s, that had drawn out Karahull’s warriors and convinced them to join against Fengar. Hullbern, if there was anything left of it. Raef thought of the lady Dagmaer and wondered if she had made it to Finnmark and found a measure of safety there. Then there were those who had as yet chosen no side, at least not that Raef knew. Bergoss, Axsellund, Innrivik, Silfravall, Ver, Freynor, Garhold. With Isolf at his side and the bad blood that lingered between him and the Arvalungen, there was little possibility an alliance might be had with Innrivik, and the raids from Silfravall would likely sour any chance at a relationship there. But that still left Raef with options. Balmoran, too, had been quiet, which surprised Raef. Thorgrim Great-Belly had called the gathering, had watched Fengar be proclaimed king, had seen the factions rise up in his very hall, and yet there had been no sign of Balmoran’s banners on any battlefield. And then there was Ulfgang. Torrulf Palesword was dead and his army and allies would have scattered, but perhaps some might be persuaded to rejoin the fight under a different banner. Raef would have to reach out and soon. He did not wish to be caught without friends when the Hammerling and Fengar turned their hungry gazes to Vannheim.

  Raef made his choices and wrote two letters, one addressed to Torleif of Axsellund, the other to Sverren of Bergoss. He sent two riders with the swiftest horses Vannheim possessed hastening across the narrow valley and into the hills. By nightfall, they would split, one headed to Axsellund, the other to Bergoss. Raef was left to wait again, wondering if he should have sent gifts, should have cajoled Torleif and Sverren with flattering words. His letters were blunt and honest. He made promises, of course, as a king must, but most of all he wrote of Fengar as an unlawful king, chosen without the voices of the warriors, and asked that Axsellund and Bergoss help him strike down this false king. On the Hammerling, Raef was silent.

  Raef watched the riders disappear into the trees, Eira at his side. She wore a frown.

  “These are not the allies you should seek,” she said, keeping her gaze on the horizon though there was nothing left to see.

  “Both border with Vannheim and peace has existed between all three for many generations.”

  Eira snorted, her disdain plain. “They possess no strength worth having.”

  Raef fought to keep his voice level. “They are small, yes, but I will not attract more powerful allies such as Thorgrim of Balmoran or Sigun of Ingis, if he has not already traded the Palesword for Fengar, without first building a foundation here in the west. I must begin somewhere.”

  Eira’s scowl remained. “You seek out the dogs when you should be brothers with wolves.”

  “Wolves who would slash open my throat at the first chance? No, I will keep my dogs, and we shall be the very hounds of war.”

  Raef turned to go but Eira’s voice stopped him. “It is the wolves who catch the sun and swallow the moon, not dogs. The dogs will die without a name.”

  Raef stepped close to Eira, her hair blowing in his face. He felt an urge to take hold of her, to squeeze something other than hatred from her, but clenched his fists at his sides instead. “Then I will die and take my name and the names of my fathers with me. I will not bed down with wolves just to carve my name into the world.” Raef spun around and left Eira at the lookout, his hands shaking with his anger and uncertainty, her words spinning webs of doubt in his mind.

  Raef shared a quiet meal with Eira and Gudrik that night. Little was said, the hall silent around them but for the footfalls of the pair of servants that waited on them. The loudest noises were the creaking of their chairs as they reached across the table to help themselves to more food and the sound of each swallowing in turn. The silence stretched on when the food was removed and it was only when Gudrik began to play his flute that Raef began to relax.

  The melody was sad and slow, a frail thing, yet beautiful. Gudrik stopped and restarted more than once, changing it a little each time as though he were composing it in that moment. Raef closed his eyes and stopped pretending to be glad of the company around him, letting the music take hold.

  He was jolted from his thoughts when Eira stood, her chair scraping back across the floor. Her eyes were hollow, her lips tight. Gudrik’s fingers paused, hovering over the holes in the flute.

  “This song,” Eira said, her voice rough, “where did you learn it?”

  Gudrik looked surprised. “Learn it? It has been in my mind for some time, but it is my own.”

  Eira frowned and Raef glanced down to see a slight tremor in he
r fingers. She clenched her fist as though she felt his eyes. “I know it.”

  “Perhaps it is much like another song.”

  Eira looked at Raef and then away again, still uneasy. “Perhaps.” She returned to her chair but her gaze was far away and troubled. Gudrik put the flute aside.

  “A story?” The poet looked to Raef, who nodded. Gudrik closed his eyes and was still for a long moment. The fire crackled, sending a shower of sparks into the air. Raef watched them settle and burn out and only then did Gudrik begin to speak, his eyes still shut.

  “Hail to those who listen,” Gudrik began. It was the story of Eileif, called Sunchaser, who was born in the dawn of Midgard. Eileif’s life was a tale filled with sorrow and loss, for he was tricked into slaughtering his family. In his grief, he went mad and clung to the false belief that if he could only reach the sun, he would find his family there and they would be restored to him. He climbed every mountain in Midgard only to find that the sun was always beyond his reach. In his desperation, he wove himself a cloak of eagle feathers and jumped from the highest peak.

  Gudrik had just spoken of Eileif’s leap, of the air underneath the feather cloak, of the moment when Eileif soared into the blue sky, when Eira rose again from her chair and paced toward the door of the hall. The door slammed behind her and Raef got up as Gudrik’s voice trailed off in the midst of Eileif’s plummeting death. Raef squeezed the poet’s shoulder and went after Eira, though he could not have said why.

  He found her on the stone steps, staring out at the black fjord, her eyes fixed on the east where the water curved out of sight. She clutched her arms to herself and did not react to Raef’s appearance at her side.

  “Do you fear your past?”

  “I fear nothing,” Eira snarled. But Raef saw her throat catch and knew he had guessed right.

  “You told me once you did not remember anything of your life before you awoke in the far eastern mountains. I do not believe you.” Raef saw no point in being gentle.

  “I remember nothing.”

  “There is a melody in your mind and a memory that goes with it.”

  “No,” Eira was shaking her head now, “no.”

  “What happened to your family?” Eira’s whole body shook. Raef gripped her wrist. “What happened to them?” Raef was shouting, though why it mattered so much he did not know. “What happened?”

  “She killed them!” Eira sobbed, her voice cracking, her eyes staring past Raef into the horror of her memory. “That knife. It slid into their soft flesh like a needle into cloth. So easy.” She closed her eyes, her body trembling violently. “But they screamed.” She put her hands to her head, covering her ears. She collapsed and would have dropped to the stones but for Raef’s arms. He lowered her to the ground and she curled her knees to her chest, head bent, ragged sobs bursting from her. Raef took her shaking hands in his and held them still until the tears ceased.

  Eira spoke, but did not raise her head and meet Raef’s eyes. Her voice was dull, lifeless. “I remember children. Brothers and sisters. They were younger. They were happy, always laughing. My mother would sing them to sleep, every night the same song. One night, she took a knife from her sleeve and when the song ended she slid it between their ribs. They screamed but no one came to save them.”

  “How did you survive?”

  “She was stronger than I was, bigger. But I was quick and she could not catch me. I took my father’s axe and split her skull.” Eira raised her head and looked at Raef. Her eyes were red and her cheeks streaked with tears, but she seemed angry that he was there, that he had witnessed her moment of weakness. Yanking her hands from his, Eira got to her feet and wiped her cheeks. “Never speak of this.” She turned and fled like a startled crow. He let her go.

  Raef lingered on the stone steps, wondering if he should not have ripped the memory from her. It had festered in her for far too long, that much he was certain of, but pressuring her to speak had not been done out of a desire to help her, but rather to satisfy his own mind. Nothing would change the words she had spoken and nothing would obliterate the pain she had unwillingly showed him, and Raef did not feel their relationship, such as it was, would be any better for it.

  His gaze turned to the stars, glittering here and there through holes in the thick clouds, the only light in the absence of the moon. So familiar in their shapes and patterns. He wondered if one of those tiny pricks of light was the star Odin had spoken of, the one he might have called home but for the workings of his heart.

  A distant light bobbed and flashed in the corner of his vision. Raef turned to the south but the light was gone. He scanned the dark southern shore of the fjord, searching. There. And another. Torches. By the time he counted ten, Raef knew what moved far across the black water, hugging the southern shore. But whether friend or foe, he could not tell. Then the torches went dark, extinguished as though on command and Raef had his answer. Finnolf would have no need to snuff his lights out, but would continue east along the shore until he could ferry across or ride farther to curve around the end of the fjord and set his course for the hall. This was not Finnolf. This was a raid and Raef did not need eyes to know that sleek ships were slinking across his fjord, masked by the night.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Sprinting back into the hall, Raef called the guards to him and told them what he had seen.

  “Shall we meet them outside the gate, lord?” The warrior who spoke gripped his spear with eager fingers.

  “No, they will not make land and come to the gate. They will come from the water.” Lights bobbing on water were sure to draw unwanted attention. Raef could guess that the lights had been extinguished at the moment the ships had left the shoreline and struck out across the open water. Time was against them, but Raef still had extra warriors camped outside his walls. “Bring all the men inside the walls. Tell them they must move as quickly and quietly as possible. I do not want them to know we have seen them. They think to surprise us and slaughter us in our beds. It is they who will be surprised for we will spring like mountain cats the moment they make land.”

  The Vestrhall’s walls were sturdy, the Vestrhall’s walls were not easily breached, but the walls had one weakness. The tall timbers plunged out into the fjord matching the length of two docks, a narrow place, wide enough only for two ships to make landing, but there was no gate in the fjord and two ships full of warriors was more than enough to wipe out the village if defenders were caught unaware. His own ships, nine in number, were far away for the winter, nestled in a cove farther up the fjord, leaving the landing open. Raef had never seen the water entrance used against his father, had never had to fear attack from the fjord, but he had always known the risk of the walls and Einarr had told him this day would come. He only wondered which enemy had come, if it was the Hammerling eager to find retribution against his former ally, if it was Fengar, thinking to take control of the west, or if the threat came from within Vannheim.

  The warriors gathered, grim shadows creeping against the walls on both sides of the water entrance and hiding behind the houses that had been built closest to the beach. The houses were emptied and those who could not fight were ushered up the hill to a place of safety. By Raef’s count, he had more than sixty men. It was a good number and could hold the narrow place with ease unless the attackers vastly outnumbered them. Only the size and number of the longships would tell and they were still hidden from his sight, lurking somewhere out on the gentle swells of the fjord. Ten archers scrambled onto the grass roofs and pressed themselves flat. Twenty spears hid furthest from the shore, ready to press down on the attackers from the higher ground, the last line of defense. The rest found cover where they could, axes and swords at the ready.

  The wait drew on and still there was no sign of the raiders, not a splash of oars in the water, not a voice carrying across the distance to the shore. They were either very cautious or Raef had guessed wrong. His heart began to beat faster and every instant he expected to hear a shout of alarm from th
e gate. Three men had been left to watch the gate. If they were silenced with swift arrows through the throat, the raiders could swarm over the wall and through the gate before Raef was any wiser. A bead of sweat trickled down Raef’s temple and he had just stood from his crouch, his mind set on returning to the gate, when he froze.

  The tell tale splash was unaccompanied but it was unmistakable. Raef felt the tension release from his limbs and his next breath was deep and steady. He had guessed right. Peering out from his hiding spot between the wall and Finnolf’s sister’s house, Raef could see the longships, two of them, one just ahead of the other, black shapes against a black night. It was with relief that Raef saw they were not the great warships, fitted with seventy oars and capable of carrying one hundred or more warriors. These were of middling size and Raef estimated they could hold forty warriors at most, though there was no way to know if these were fully manned.

  Raef and his men held their ground and Raef heard the first ship slow between the two docks, the oars held steady in the water to keep the longship from running aground too hard and fast. Then the gentle scrape of the hull sliding into the shallows. And a low, watery thud marked the ship’s arrival. Raef closed his eyes and listened to the second ship do the same. Only then did he hear men begin to disembark.

  The raiders were skilled and careful but still Raef caught the sounds of feet shuffling against the pebbles and sand. A splash here and there. A rustle of cloth against shield. But not a single voice. Raef waited, tracking the raiders with his mind’s eye until he judged the moment right.

  When the dark figures of the attackers had gone far enough, Raef raised his gaze to the rooftop of the closest house and let out a low whistle, the call of the night birds that lurked and nested in the trees close to the water. In answer, an arrow was loosed and soundlessly pierced one of the raiders. He fell in the same moment Raef sprang forth, sword raised and a cry on his lips. Around him, his men swarmed from the shadows and fell upon the enemy with savagery.