The Hills of Home (The Song of the Ash Tree Book 2) (16 page)

They reached the second fjord as the sun slipped out of sight, casting deep shadows through the trees, but Raef did not need the sun to know where he was for every blade of grass, every tree, every rock was known to him. In the last of the light, he could make out the steep hills across the water, the snow clinging to the edge of the northern shore. And there, the walls that had stood in that place since his ancestors first called it home, two docks bereft of ships stretching out into the darkening water, and above it all, the Vestrhall. The torches outside the hall’s doors were but pricks of light and Raef saw the sloping roof, the stone stairs, the great wooden doors with his mind more than his eyes. He was home.

But the joy Raef felt was buried deep under doubts and misgivings as Skarfi and Hollof argued about whether they should stop for the night or continue on. Hollof wanted to press onward to the nearest ferry further inland, where the fjord began to narrow. Skarfi was adamant that they spend the night, grumbling that Hollof had taken far more than his share of the time on the horse and that he would not walk farther. Hollof cast more than one uneasy glance at Raef, though whether he was merely concerned that Raef might attempt to escape or whether he was having misgivings about holding the lord of Vannheim prisoner, Raef could not tell. In the end, Skarfi won Hollof over and they searched out a patch of ground sheltered by thick pine branches and largely free of snow.

Raef’s leg gave out when he dismounted but neither Skarfi nor Hollof bothered to help him rise. By the time Raef managed to crawl beneath the pine boughs, Skarfi had tethered the horses.

“What about him?” Hollof asked.

“He cannot walk,” Skarfi said.

“Fine, you stay up all night to make sure he stays put.”

Skarfi glowered but took Hollof’s advice. Though Raef tried to protest that he would not, could not run, Skarfi soon had him trussed around the waist to a slender pine, leaving Raef hunched awkwardly at the base of the trunk, his legs splayed out in front of him, his neck pricked by pine needles.

The night was mild but even so Raef knew the cold would sap what little strength he had regained in Brunn and Sigrid’s care. To his surprise, after hearing Hollof and Skarfi muttering, a spare blanket retrieved from the depths of Hollof’s pack was tossed through the darkness, landing just within Raef’s reach. He draped it over himself, willing his body to find sleep.

He dreamed a new dream that night. A woman came to him, her face hidden in shadows, and he knew her to be his mother. She said nothing, merely came to sit by him, as though he were a small boy in bed with an illness. Raef wanted to speak to her, but his tongue was too heavy in his mouth, nor could he lift a hand to push away her hood and reveal her face. Just when he began to feel his tongue loosen, she vanished, slipping away like fog in the first light of day, and her place was taken by the same visions that had stalked him in Hrodvelgr’s caverns and the labyrinth. Eira, calling to him, screaming for help. Vakre, dying in silence, his eyes accusing Raef of betrayal. Siv, drowning, gasping for air and finding only water and blood. And then he was alone in a crushing darkness.

If he cried out as he woke, Raef could not have said, but Skarfi was peering at him through a gap in the lowest branch and there was something uneasy in the big man’s eyes. Raef’s heart thudded in his chest in the wake of the dream as he met Skarfi’s stare and he could feel sweat on his forehead. Skarfi said nothing and disappeared into the darkness once more.

Raef did not sleep again that night and was glad when his captors rose early, before the sun, and they began to trace the fjord’s edge, dipping away from the water as the terrain required, but always heading east. Neither man said a word to Raef until the tiny village that had sprung up next to the ferry crossing was in sight.

“Not a word, understand?” It was Hollof who admonished Raef.

Raef had heard them arguing once more not long after sunrise about whether he might be recognized at the ferry crossing. Were it not for a bend in the fjord, the village would sit in sight of the Vestrhall. It seemed they could not agree and in the end did nothing to conceal Raef as they sought out the ferryman.

The ferry was no more than a sturdy raft outfitted with a small square sail and a few paddles manned by three skinny boys, the ferryman’s sons. Hollof scowled at the ferryman’s price, but he and Skarfi counted out grubby coins only to find they were still short. Skarfi began to reach for his knife, but the sharp-eyed ferryman spoke quickly and in the end offered to take Brunn’s horse as payment.

Raef balked at this but the knife that had been aimed at the ferryman came to rest against Raef’s ribs and he was forced to hobble aboard the raft. One of the boys watched with wide eyes but said nothing and soon they were underway.

The morning air was still and so Hollof and Skarfi took extra paddles and helped speed their progress. Raef, left alone by the mast, longed for the feel of an oar in his hands and had to settle for the hint of salt on the air.

The fever was raging again. He had eluded it since Bara had washed it from him in Jötunheim, but it had sprung to life overnight, overtaking the exhausted shell that was his body, and built as they made their way to the crossing point. Now he drifted in and out of consciousness as they crossed the fjord and Skarfi had to drag him onto shore when they reached the northern side. Left with only one horse, Skarfi had no choice but to lift Raef into the saddle, where he clung for the remainder of the journey.

When the Vestrhall came into view, Raef was blind to it. Only when they approached the gate and sentries called out did Raef manage to raise his head. The faces of the men at the gate swam in front of him, but he was certain they were all strangers.

“I am Skarfi, son of Eyvin. We seek an audience.” Skarfi said in answer to one of the sentry’s question.

One of the guards came close, inspecting their faces and their horse. “Your name?” he asked Hollof.

“Hollof, son of Bjormund.”

“And this one?” The guard’s gaze shifted to Raef, who could not focus on him.

“Our prisoner,” Hollof said. “We come in search of justice for his crimes against us.”

This seemed to satisfy the guard, who gave a nod at his companions. The gate was opened and they passed through, but once within the walls they were directed to leave the horse behind. Grumbling, Hollof dragged Raef from the saddle. Somehow Raef kept his feet, though his left knee buckled. He opened his mouth and forced his tongue to form the words.

“My name is Raef Skallagrim.” His voice was harsh and hoarse and weak, but even through his fever he could see the warriors squint and stare in surprise. Cursing, Hollof punched him in the gut and he reeled backward, falling, Hollof stalking after him. But it was enough. The guards descended on all three of them, spears bristling, and Hollof was knocked to the ground while Raef was pushed back against the gate, kept on his feet only by the hands holding him there, his teeth barred against the pain in his knee as his stomach roiled and his vision darkened. The horse skittered and reared, nearly striking a sentry in the head with a hoof.

“He lies, he lies,” Skarfi said through gritted teeth, a spear point forcing his chin up, his hands stopped in the act of reaching for his knife.

“Quiet, whoreson,” a guard said, but his face showed uncertainty as his gaze flickered between the three men. It lingered on Raef the longest.

“I am the lord of Vannheim and Einarr before me,” Raef said, his voice stronger now. “Search out the captain of the gate. Ulfirth will know me.”

“I am the captain of the gate,” the man said, his gaze narrowing. “And I answer to one man. He will decide who you are.” First sending a man up to the hall to announce their coming, he ordered them to be disarmed and their hands bound and then Skarfi and Hollof were marched up the rise, Raef half-carried, half-dragged in their wake, the village quiet around them save for the barking of a dog.

At the hall, three more guards stood watch, their faces blank and unfamiliar to Raef. The heavy wooden doors of the Vestrhall creaked open and a man burst forth.

“What is the meaning of this? Release him at once,” he said, pointing to Raef. Then he held his arms wide and his face creased into a smile. “Cousin.”

Uncertain and desperate for something to lean against, Raef swayed as the ropes came off. The man was a stranger to him, tall and broad shouldered, his orange beard tied into two tiny braids and the hair on his head wild and untamed.

Raef’s reluctance did not seem to fluster him. He closed the space between them and wrapped Raef in his arms. “Thank the gods you are safe and have returned to us.” He released Raef and held him at arm’s length, his clear gaze taking in Raef’s appearance and his cheerful face now showing displeasure. “Have these men harmed you? They will pay.” He looked to the captain of the gate. “Take them away. I will deal with them later,” he said, his voice earnest and dangerous. “And see that the villagers know this good news.”

The warriors complied, leading off Skarfi and Hollof, who howled and protested but were rewarded with swift kicks to the shins. They disappeared, leaving Raef with the stranger and three silent guards.

The smile had returned to the man’s face. He clapped Raef’s shoulder and Raef felt his strength give out at last. Falling, he clutched at the man who called him cousin, then the orange-haired man was supporting him, strong arms under Raef’s armpits, his face looming close and full of concern. “Come, come, let us get you inside, cousin.” Raef tried to talk, to ask the questions that burned on his tongue, but, as the stranger and another man began to carry him over the threshold of the hall, found he did not have the will to speak. A sharp whistle brought servants running and at last Raef knew familiar faces. “Young Skallagrim needs rest and care. See that he does not want for anything.”

Raef, his head spinning now, was carried to his chamber. The familiar bed rose up to catch him and there he lay, taking in the sights and sounds of home, aware that he should be demanding to know who was living in his father’s hall, and yet losing himself to the simple fact that he was no longer alone. He searched for the orange-haired man among the faces that hovered over him, but the stranger had slipped away. In no time, a fire roared to life and his chamber came alive with its dancing light.

A pair of servants stripped the borrowed clothes from him, then removed Sigrid’s careful bandage on his forearm and lowered him into a steaming bath. Gentle hands, those of an older woman he remembered was named Margeth, sponged the filth from his skin and cleaned the fresher wounds. When this was done, she washed his hair, her fingers kneading into his scalp with gentle pressure. When she finished, Raef sank back, letting the water come to his chin, and closed his eyes.

Margeth returned with a tray of food and drink, the stranger at her heels, his orange hair showing shades of red in the light of the fire in Raef’s hearth. As Margeth poured mead, Raef tried to climb from the tub and failed, but the stranger was there to catch him, waiting until he steadied before wrapping him in a bearskin and helping him sink back onto the expanse of his bed. Margeth, her duties completed, left them.

The orange-haired man leaned over Raef, his eyes dark with concern.

“Sleep, cousin,” he said. His face disappeared.

“Wait, wait,” Raef said, his voice no more than a whisper. But the stranger was already gone and Raef was already asleep.

FIFTEEN

“
H
ow long?”

“Two days.”

Raef touched a hand to his forehead and found it dry and cool.

“Your fever broke early this morning.”

Raef was propped in his bed, cushions supporting his shoulders and head so he could see the orange-haired stranger without straining his neck. The bearskin had been replaced with fresh linen and Raef could smell and taste the sharp tang of the salve that had been spread on his forearm and palm.

“Are you hungry?”

Raef was famished but he did not glance at the steaming broth the stranger had brought and set beside the hearth. His heartbeat was steady and sure for the first time in many days and Raef felt calm. But weak.

“Perhaps some mead?” The man filled two cups and settled one in Raef’s fingers where they rested on the bed though he made no move to take it. He was not sure he was strong enough to lift the cup to his lips, but that was not the only source of his reluctance. The two men eyed each other, suspicion threading through Raef’s mind. The stranger raised his own cup. “To your return and your health.”

“Who are you?”

The stranger grinned. “I am Isolf Valbrand. The blood of Tyrlaug runs through both our veins.”

“My mother was a daughter of Tyrlaug of Innrivik.”

“As was mine.”

Raef studied Isolf’s face, wondering if there was something of his mother in his cheekbones, the shape of his nose, the tiny wrinkles at the corners of Isolf’s eyes. “My father never spoke of relatives of my mother still living. Tyrlaug’s line died with his son.”

“This is true, and why would your father speak otherwise? My mother married a warrior of little repute and I was born in a wild corner of Innrivik. When our grandfather perished and our uncle with him, I was but a boy of nine. You could not have been more than four.” Raef confirmed this with a nod. “Innrivik fell to the hands of Bjard Arvalungen, that brute and his four sons, and my mother kept me well out of harms way. I grew up in obscurity and it may well be that your father never knew of my existence.”

Raef waited until Isolf turned his back to poke at the logs in the fire before trying to lift the cup. He failed and the mead sloshed over the rim. If Isolf noticed, he said nothing. “I am pleased to learn something of my mother’s family, but your story does not explain your presence in my hall.”

Isolf’s face remained cheerful. “It does not. Only give me a moment and all will become known to you.” Isolf took a drink and licked his lips. “As I grew to manhood, it became clear that I had something of a warrior in me, a remnant of Tyrlaug himself rather than my own father. I won renown in local skirmishes, making a name for myself, and men began to follow me, though I was no lord and the Arvalungen pups resented my growing reputation. They sullied my name in any way they could, blaming their thievery on me, naming me the murderer behind the deaths of their enemies. I wanted to fight them, to overthrow them and take up the seat in the Styrkholm in Tyrlaug’s name. But their forces were too strong and I lingered in Innrivik only until my mother died, keeping my head down at her insistence. That was three years ago, and I have wandered deep in the southern lands in the days since.”

“And this war of the three kings? What part did you and your men play?”

Isolf shrugged. “None, if truth be told. When news of the war reached us, it was already stale. By the time we returned to Innrivik, Torrulf Palesword was already dead.”

“Then why not throw your lot in with the Hammerling or Fengar?”

“These men are nothing to me. Names, that is all. Which should I have chosen to be my king? Which could I follow to death or victory?” Isolf poured more mead into his cup. “Imagine my surprise when rumor reached my corner of Innrivik of a young Skallagrim waging and winning a great battle to the east only to turn away from the war and return to Vannheim.” Isolf grinned again. “I am a curious man and I knew you were my cousin. What sort of man was this, I asked myself. And so I resolved to travel to Vannheim, to meet you in your return, and see what we might make of our shared blood.”

Raef was silent for a moment, soaking in Isolf’s words. “And when you arrived and found me missing and presumed dead?”

“I was grieved to be sure. The last relation I had in this world, taken before I might see his face. But there were some who had traveled with you who spoke differently and it was their words that convinced me you yet lived.”

“Who, who returned?”

“A young captain named Finnolf called Horsebreaker was chief among them. He said you had disappeared under strange circumstances. That there was no body, no demands of silver and gold in exchange for your life, no battle. What could I do, as your cousin, but hold the Vestrhall in your name, keeping the vultures at bay until you found your way back to us. And the vultures have come, Raef. They spit and scuffle at your doorstep, ravenous for a chance to take Vannheim for themselves.”

“Do these vultures have names?”

“They do, names that will be familiar to you, I think. But you must be weary. You must rest and I will send the healer to examine you once more.” Isolf frowned. “The war has taken its toll on you, that much is certain.”

“The names, first, then I will rest,” Raef said.

Isolf began to protest, but thought better of it. “Very well. The first to arrive was called Rudrak Red-beard but close on his heels was Snorren Thoken. They came sniffing for word of you but my men put them off. Since then, I have heard that they watch the most common routes in and out of Vannheim, searching for you so that they might kill you on the road.”

“Not Tulkis Greyshield?”

Isolf raised his brows. “That name is unknown to me. You would expect him to prey upon Vannheim in your absence?”

“Long ago, before we kneeled to the first king, his ancestor was lord of Vannheim. The Greyshields have never forgotten this, nor forgiven the death of Thannulf Greyshield at the hands of Finnvold Skallagrim. Their grievance has passed to Tulkis and he bears it with great pride.”

“Then I am sure he watches from the shadows, seeking his opportunity.” Isolf took a long look at Raef, as though he was sizing up his cousin’s ability to throw off those who would seek to supplant him. If Isolf found him lacking, his face did not betray his doubts. “Rest now, cousin. We will speak again this evening.” Isolf rose from his chair and went to the door.

Raef closed his eyes, though he wished not to show weakness in front of Isolf. “What of my men? Those who went to war with me? We traveled apart. They made up the greater part of Vannheim’s strength.” He opened his eyes, though it was with effort.

“As far as I know, they have returned to their homes and fields, scattered into the far reaches of your lands. But information has been scarce.” Isolf looked down at his feet. “My own men are not great enough in number to learn what I wish to know and I find your people do not trust me with what they know.”

Raef smiled. “As they should, when a stranger walks among them. But I will see that they know what you have done for me.”

“Till nightfall, then, cousin.”

Raef nodded, his eyes half closed. The door closed quietly behind Isolf and his flaming hair, leaving Raef alone with the beat of his heart and the crackle of the fire. His mind drifted, though not into sleep, and he paid little mind when a woman entered and began to redress his wounds. Raef had known her since childhood, though she was only a few years older, and her hands moved quickly and deftly as she explained that, as best she could tell, his kneecap had come out of place and, though it had slid back in on its own, that was the cause of the pain in his leg. It would need rest, she said, and would take time to recover fully. She told him about the mixture of redtail and fox root she had given him for the pain, the smooth hazel oil she had spread on his bruises, the ice bath she had given him when the fever was at its worst.

“You have eaten nothing but a few spoonfuls of broth.” She took her eyes off her work long enough to look Raef in the eye. “You must do better than that.”

Raef nodded and did not protest when she carried the bowl Isolf had left to the bed and began to feed him.

“Some bread later, I think,” she said. “Meat tomorrow.”

But half the rich broth was still left in the bowl when Raef’s stomach lurched and a wave of nausea churned through him. He leaned back against the pillows and swallowed hard. “Enough, Aldrif.”

Aldrif frowned but set the bowl aside and pulled the blankets back over Raef’s chest. “I will come back with something easier for your stomach.” She stood but hesitated by the bed. “Did you go a very long time without food, lord?”

Raef met her gaze. “Yes.”

Aldrif nodded, brisk and sure once more. “Then we will take it slow.”

Raef thanked her but before Aldrif could leave, the door to Raef’s chamber burst open.

“I must see him!” First through the door was a tall man, wrinkled before his time, the clawed, twisted fingers that made up his withered right hand reaching to Raef, but he was brought up short by Isolf’s firm grip.

“He needs rest, priest,” Isolf growled.

The wrinkled face turned on Isolf and the grey eyes narrowed. “And you need to keep your tongue behind your teeth before I pour molten gold down your throat. I must see him. Would you deny a priest of Odin?”

Isolf scowled and looked to Raef, who nodded.

“Let him in.”

“And leave us,” the priest hissed, still staring at Isolf. Another nod from Raef cleared the room.

“Fylkir.” Raef pushed himself up against his pillows, trying to match the priest’s height as best he could.

“I have not answered to that name since you were a child. Will you treat me with as much disrespect as your father did?”

Raef bristled. “There was no disrespect, priest. Not from my father or from me.”

“And still you will not call me the name I am owed.” Fylkir’s twisted fingers clenched.

Raef kept his voice calm. “What do you want?”

Fylkir turned and paced the length of Raef’s chamber, using his left hand to pry his fingers one by one out of the fist he had made. Only when this was done did he speak. “I had to be certain. Had to see you for myself.”

“Certain of what?”

“Have you ever seen a shadow in a man’s skin?” The priest sneered. “You are too blind to have seen it. But I am not. The Allfather has given me the sight to see what others cannot.”

“And what do you see when you look at me?”

“Flesh and bone. No more.”

“You sound disappointed.”

The clawed hand clenched again, a reflex Fylkir could not control. Pain flashed through his eyes. “Do not play with me, boy.”

“I am no boy, priest. Take care.”

Fylkir lunged at the bed and for a moment Raef thought he might strike. “You should be more careful. The Allfather speaks to me, not you.”

The laugh burst from Raef before he could swallow it down. Harsh and hoarse, it transformed into a shout of anger that caused the priest to draw back involuntarily. “Go back to your cave. Drink your sheep’s blood and dance under the moon. I will not see you here again, Fylkir. Do you understand? Only Josurr is welcome in my hall if you have not already driven him mad. My father gave you far more respect than you deserved and I will not make the same mistake.”

Fylkir stared at Raef, his jaw moving as though he were mustering a response. The fingers still clenched at his side were turning white.

“Leave,” Raef snarled. “Or you will not walk out of here.”

The priest left in a swirl of robes, the door thudding shut behind him, and Raef exhaled. His anger had awoken the pain that ate at his body and Raef clutched a hand to his traitorous knee until the throbbing dwindled. Forgetting his stomach, Raef swung out of bed and hobbled to the pitcher of mead Isolf had left behind. Ignoring the cup, Raef brought the cool stone to his lips and drank long and deep, swallow after swallow until he could take no more. The stone pitcher crashed to the floor, cracking open, as Raef doubled over and retched up mead and broth. He reached for the edge of his bed, missed, and fell, his knee giving out. His stomach continued to heave and Raef, his cheek pressed into the pool of spreading mead, brought his knees to his chest to try to still his shaking body.

It was Isolf who found him, who lifted him from the floor, who was the first to wipe the mead and vomit from Raef’s face. Then Aldrif was there, pressing a cup to Raef’s lips. He shook his head and tried to refuse it, but she murmured in his ear and he let the cool liquid slide across his tongue and down his throat. Her concoction stole through his body swiftly and soon Raef felt his muscles loosen. His stomach relaxed and even his knee no longer tormented him. He reached for the cup again and Aldrif gave him another swallow, then left at a gesture from Isolf.

In the wake of the pain, shame crept over him. He turned his head, taking in the mess he had made, saw the contents of his stomach soaking through Isolf’s tunic.

“Forgive me,” Raef said.

“You are ill, cousin, and injured. And you should not apologize to me in your own home.”

“I let him anger me.”

Isolf raised an eyebrow.

“The priest. I know him, I know his foul nature. I should not have let it happen.”

“Shall I have him brought to you for punishment?”

Raef shook his head. “No. He knows he is no longer welcome in the Vestrhall.”

“Will you not need him? He is a priest of Odin.”

Raef sighed. “There is another. Josurr. Far more tolerable.”

Isolf nodded his understanding. “I will have Aldrif bring you something to eat.”

“Have her bring more of the drink she just gave me.” When the door shut behind Isolf, Raef curled onto his side and stared out the window, past the dust filtering through the streams of sunlight, his gaze roving across the soft white snow and sharp black trees. Closing his eyes, Raef drew the covers over his head and shut out the light.