The Hills of Home (The Song of the Ash Tree Book 2) (14 page)

He closed his eyes and at first the roar in his ears seemed a thing of dreams, for Raef’s exhaustion had him on the verge of unconsciousness, but it grew louder, more urgent, a wind rising from deep within the ground, a ferocious beast caged too long now sensing freedom. Raef pushed himself away from the pillar as the sound grew to a deafening pitch. The earth shook beneath him once more and then the pillar split apart, rent to pieces and dust. The force of the eruption sent Raef flying with the debris. When he struck the ground, he slipped into a world between life and death and all was darkness.

THIRTEEN

D
rip.
Drip. Raef’s
eyelids twitched, trying to rid themselves of the irritation on his face. More drips and Raef’s mind fumbled for the word. Rain. Yes. This knowledge floated in his head as Raef felt the water splash against his skin. It seemed important, life-saving, but he could not remember why.

The drops fell harder and faster and Raef opened his cracked lips, his flesh drinking up the water and his tongue tasting its sweet relief. Only when the rain had soaked him did he venture to open his eyes. Blinking against the fat drops, he saw a grey sky, clouds in varying shades of darkness, their edges polished by the hidden sun. Raef knew he should move, should stand, but the effort required was unthinkable and it seemed enough to simply lie there.

The rain grew lighter and soon the drops were replaced with soft, whispery things. Snow. The flakes melted on Raef’s cheeks and only at that moment did he understand he was cold.

Taking his eyes from the grey sky, Raef forced his unwilling body to roll onto its side. His vision swam, the extent of his weakness becoming clear to Raef, and it was with blurry eyes that he took in the pebbled, rocky shore, the rolling waves that tumbled in from the grey sea. Memory flooded back with each foam-capped wave. Beautiful, dangerous Alfheim and its dragon-kin. Finnoul and her rebellion. Jötunheim, bleak and desperate. Mogthrasir, Hrodvelgr, the black cells and his escape. The labyrinth. Raef’s mind seemed to shrink away from that last thought and he felt his body shiver and his breath catch, a visceral, violent reaction.

But this was not the labyrinth. His heart soared with this knowledge, bringing warmth to his cold flesh. He knew this place. He had nearly drowned off this shore as a boy, rescued only by his father’s strong arms. He was home.

If he twisted his head and looked north, he would see cliffs, dangerous and battered in storms, bright and brilliant in sunlight. Birds would be flying to and from their hidden nests, seeking fish in the waters below. If he looked south, he would see the entrance to a fjord, Vannheim’s deepest and longest. Fishermen would be trolling the waters there in search of silver scales. And if Raef stood and looked inland, to the east, he would see tall, tree-covered hills lining the fjord and stretching into Vannheim’s interior. The deep forests would be filled with snow and yet alive with animals.

But Raef could see none of this, for each moment he grew more aware of his lack of strength and a dull pain that cocooned his entire body. The snow fell and Raef’s mind wandered until a voice brought it back. It was a child’s voice, shrieking in delight as a wave chased her across the pebbles. Back and forth she ran, drawing ever closer to where Raef lay, her cheeks rosy in the winter air. When she saw him, she stopped, the joy disappearing from her face. In its place rested calm curiosity. She stood still, her eyes on his, and then approached.

When she was close enough to touch him, she knelt down and studied him again, brown eyes taking in his bare chest, his ragged pants, his scars, the fresh blood on his palm. Raef tried to speak but his lips moved and nothing came out. She rose and scampered out of Raef’s sight but it was not long before Raef heard her voice once more.

“Just there, Papa, come closer.”

“Stay back, Eadilwif, he may be dangerous.”

Raef heard boots scraping over loose stones as the man approached from behind him. Then a face loomed into the edge of Raef’s view.

“Looks half dead,” the man muttered to himself. He crossed in front of Raef and squatted down. “Can you hear me?”

Raef tried again to speak but had to settle with a simple nod.

“Here.” The man unhooked a skin from his belt and held it against Raef’s lips. The water dribbled down his chin but then Raef managed to swallow. “Shipwrecked?” Raef nodded again and the man mirrored him, sandy-colored, braided beard wagging, before mustering his wisdom. “Serves you right for sailing in winter. Aegir is a cruel god.”

Raef thought of Bara, one of the sea god’s nine daughters, and did not renounce Aegir his ways.

“Can you stand?”

Raef found his voice at last, cracked and broken as it was. “No.”

The man scratched his head. “Wait here,” he said, as if Raef might do otherwise. “I will return.” He vanished from Raef’s view and the boots retreated.

“Can I stay with him, Papa?”

“No, sprout, best you come with me.” The sounds of their feet faded, leaving Raef alone with the waves and falling snow. Raef fumbled among the stones until his fingers seized on a smooth, flat one. He brought it up to his face and rubbed his thumb along the streak of white that split through the grey. Clinging to this piece of home, Raef drifted into unconsciousness. The tide rose, washing against Raef’s feet, and snow settled in his hair.

The return of the fisherman disturbed Raef only a little. He was aware of hands, more than two but how many he could not have said, lifting him from the wet sand. Then he knew the warmth of a fire, distant, like the sun filtering through heavy clouds, and the feel of his soaked pants being stripped from his shivering skin, a wool blanket wrapping tight in their absence. A spoon to his lips and a hand to his jaw helped coax hot broth down his throat. He dreamed of ravens, a great flock of them, turning the sky dark with their black wings.

In time, the dream state slipped away and Raef, his frozen skin and bones thawed, knew pain. His entire body ached, dull in some places, sharp in others, and his stomach, awoken by the broth after long hibernation, raged to life, demanding sustenance. Faces peered over him, the fisherman, a woman, and two other men.

“Water,” Raef said, his voice a croaking whisper. The woman complied and Raef took long swallows from the cup she held to his lips. When it was empty, she filled it again and Raef drained it once more. The broth returned, and this time Raef was able to consume a greater quantity, his head propped up on the fisherman’s knees. When even this simple action of eating and swallowing exhausted Raef, they lowered his head to the ground and he slipped into a deep sleep, unmarked by dreams.

When he awoke again, his mind was clearer but the pain in his body stronger. He had been moved from his place on the floor in front of the fire and rested now on a bed of straw. The smell of cooking fish made Raef’s mouth water but he lay still, listening to the voices around him and assessing the extent of his injuries.

To his relief, the broken ribs that had plagued him for so long were but a lingering memory. The worst of his pain was in his left leg, spreading downward from his knee. He remembered the pillar, the way it had shattered, sending him flying. His arms throbbed as well, the left one dark with bruises where he had landed on it, the right with a sharper pain where Hrodvelgr’s creature had wounded him. The effort of holding his head up made his heart beat faster and he felt sweat break out on his forehead as his skull began to pound. Raef let his head fall back to the straw and closed his eyes until he had regained some measure of control.

His movement did not go unnoticed and the girl came to stand over him, her eyes still curious, until the woman guided her away and took her place.

“You have my thanks,” Raef said. “I will repay you.”

The woman smiled a little. “Do you feel well enough to eat? The stew is ready.” Though the process was painful, the fisherman raised Raef into a sitting position. The blanket fell away, revealing Raef’s pale skin beneath. Raef brought a hand to his chest, surprised at how small he seemed, how much muscle had melted from his bones. A bowl of fish stew was placed in his lap and, though his hands were unsteady, Raef began to feed himself.

“I do not think you have broken any bones,” the woman said. She sat at a table with the fisherman and the small girl, breaking bread into large pieces to dip in their own bowls. “But I am not a healer.”

“Nonsense,” the fisherman broke in, a wide smile on his face. “If she says you have not broken any bones, it is the truth.”

“I have treated the wound on your arm,” the woman said, ignoring her husband. Her eyes said she did not dare ask what had caused it. “If you keep it clean it should heal, but there will be a scar.”

Raef tried to smile but feared it came out as a grimace. “Another for the collection. Tell me how I can repay you.” The woman rose and went to the hearth. Raef noticed for the first time that she was pregnant. “There must be something you need. Cattle? Goats? Coin?”

The fisherman looked puzzled. “How could we expect such great gifts? If you feel you must repay us, you may do so when you are able. For now, you must rest and regain your strength.”

The knowledge that they did not know him was both a relief and a shame. Raef opened his mouth to identify himself but the words did not come. Instead, he ate in silence, the watchful eyes of young Eadilwif never straying far for long as her father and mother spoke of the day’s work.

Night fell and with it came a cold wind, shrieking around the corners of the small home and trying, in vain, to slip through cracks. The house was sturdy and well built, though, and the winter was kept at bay. The fire roared and sparked, a cheerful guard against the cold, and Raef knew he would not have survived this night had the fisherman’s daughter not found him on the shore. The fisherman’s wife brought him a drink of herbs that would still his pain. Its taste was familiar, a concoction Raef had downed more than once to ease the aches of rowing or battle. He drained it and then the last candle was blown out, leaving only the fire to burn down and light the night.

Raef slept, but peace and rest eluded him as his mind plunged back into the labyrinth. The visions of death, of all he held dear turning to dust while he stood by helpless, returned to him, riding the cloak of the wind but undeterred by the firelight. Raef’s body became a battleground as his mind fought tides of darkness he could not overcome, and he awoke, screaming, sobbing, and gasping for air.

The fisherman and his wife knelt over him, her hands stroking Raef’s hair, his holding Raef’s shoulders as Raef, still blinded by the dreams, tried to wrench himself from the bed of straw. Deep breaths and the woman’s quiet murmurs soothed him, calmed him, and all the while Raef watched their anxious faces and knew they wondered what madness they had brought to their home.

He did not sleep again that night, nor did the fisherman and his wife. The fire was stoked and the man brought Raef a small cup of mead, forcing it into his hand when he tried to protest. Raef took a sip and the sweet, strong liquid slid down his throat. It was good. And necessary. The woman, wrapping herself in a fur-lined cloak, ventured into the night, returning with more wood and a gust of wind that threatened the stubby candle burning on the table. The flame quavered, righted itself, and grew strong once more. His bladder bursting, Raef was forced to ask the fisherman to lift him from the straw and then, when Raef could not find the strength to stand, carry him from the house to the latrine out back. By the time they returned to the warmth of the fire, Raef was shivering violently.

“I am Brunn,” the fisherman said, after settling Raef close to the hearth once more. He sat on a stool angled to face both the fire and Raef, though his gaze settled somewhere off of Raef’s left ear rather than on Raef’s face. “My wife is Sigrid.” Brunn looked uncomfortable, uncertain what should be said. “Is Vannheim your home?”

“Yes.”

“You have the look of a warrior. Did you fight with our lord in the east?”

Raef nodded.

“We heard rumor of battles hard-fought and fierce. They say three kings fought and two still live.”

Raef was uncertain how to respond so he asked a safe question. “And Vannheim, how fares she?”

Brunn looked surprised and Raef saw him glance to Sigrid. “You do not know? We are in lordless lands. The son of Skallagrim is dead.”

“How did he die?”

Brunn shrugged. “How else does a warrior die? In battle, I think. A great many warriors returned and spoke of a lake blazing with fire. I even heard one say he saw the Valkyries descend on the field of battle. But young Skallagrim was not among those who came back.”

“His captains?”

Brunn shrugged again. “I am but a fisherman. I trade my fish at market. I listen to those who like to talk. But information is scare in these parts.”

Raef asked the question he dreaded. “Who rules in Vannheim, then?”

“I could not say. Perhaps no one.” Brunn looked again at Sigrid and gave her a smile. “Life goes on here. There are fish in the fjords and deer in the hills. Just as there always will be.” Raef, beset with visions of a future that rumbled toward them like a storm, knew better but kept the darkness to himself.

They spoke only a little as they waited for the dawn. As rosy fingers of golden light began to spread from the east, the fierce wind dwindled, tamed by Sol and the coming day. Sigrid busied herself with the morning meal and little Eadilwif ran to the fjord for fresh water. They ate day old bread and a dish of cabbage and smoked sausages, though Raef found he did not have the stomach for more than a few bites, then Brunn set off for his boat and Sigrid filled a large, shallow bowl with water that had been heated over the fire. She knelt next to Raef’s straw bed, a clean cloth in her hand and gestured to his face. Raef took the cloth, dipped it in the steaming water and wrung out the excess, then wiped his face. The cloth came away grey and grimy and Raef could see black flecks of dried blood. Hrodvelgr’s creature, slain in the arena, and perhaps a bit of the giant himself, mingled with his beast in death. It seemed a lifetime ago.

Raef wiped again and again, turning the water black with filth, until Sigrid took the cloth from him, filled the dish with clean water, and began to wipe down the length of his arms, his neck, and across the part of his chest that was exposed to the air. Her touch was tender and sure, the water warm, and Raef closed his eyes, letting himself enjoy this small measure of comfort.

When she had finished, he was by no means clean. But a layer of grime had been lifted and Raef’s skin prickled, cooled now by the water’s residue. Sigrid helped Raef into a set of dry clothes borrowed from Brunn. He thanked her and pulled the blankets close and then, with the light of the sun filtering through the solitary window and settling over his face, he slept.