The Hills of Home (The Song of the Ash Tree Book 2) (18 page)

The edge of the sun burned over the horizon as Raef and Eira approached the ring of stones. Two figures slept encircled in its grasp. Raef was tempted to let them sleep. Vakre was stretched out, limbs and blankets entangled, while Siv was curled tight, her braid nearly the only thing visible. They looked peaceful and Raef envied that. Eira spared no thought for her companions, though, and roused them loudly.

Siv was first to rise, her hand reaching for a knife until she saw Raef. A smile grew on her face as Vakre, cursing the blanket for snaring him, got to his feet. When his gaze, too, found Raef, he froze, disbelief etched on his face. Then he grinned wide and, laughing and closing the distance between them, first grasped Raef’s forearm and then pulled him close in a strong embrace.

“It seems you have some life in you yet, friend,” Vakre said as he released Raef and held him at arm’s length. The grin faded. “We had begun to lose hope.”

“He did,” Siv broke in, her face impassive but a twinkle in her eye. “I held true.”

Vakre rolled his eyes at her. “Forgive me, steadfast one, the error of my ways has been revealed to me.”

Siv grinned and then made her way to Raef, the merriment on her face turning to an inquisitive look as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Her hold was without Vakre’s vigor and Eira’s unwilling, fiery passion, but there was solace that Raef found surprising. She stepped back.

“Are you well?”

He might have said yes, given any passing answer, but as he looked into Siv’s eyes he heard himself say, “No.” It was a simple thing and yet to him it conveyed a great deal more. She did not question him further and her eyes did not convey pity, and Raef was grateful for both of these things.

“What happened, Raef?” Vakre’s question was soft but insistent.

Raef looked at Vakre, the burden of his journey heavy on his shoulders, but when he opened his mouth to begin the story, he said instead, “There will be time enough for that.”

The four of them shared a morning meal of hard bread and dried meat and between bites they exchanged information. Raef told them of his new-found cousin, Isolf, then Vakre and Siv took turns telling what they knew of Vannheim and the growing sense of unrest. Eira kept silent.

“My cousin said two warriors are actively seeking my hall, Rudrak Red-beard and Snorren Thoken,” Raef said. “Both fought at the burning lake.”

Vakre confirmed this with a nod. “They arrived at your hall within a day of each other, but your cousin had beaten them there. They were surprised to find it defended and have avoided it since. We have seen Red-beard’s men to the north. They watch the road to Finngale and prey on innocent travelers. As for this other one, Snorren, we hear he has retreated to his land in the south of Vannheim, but I do not trust what my own eyes have not seen. Neither has ventured close to the Vestrhall again.”

“And Tulkis Greyshield? Has he come forth?”

Siv shook her head. “But you are not the only one to wonder. Not two days past, I heard villagers in the market speak of this Greyshield. They seemed surprised that he had not shown his strength.” Silence from Greyshield only made Raef uneasy.

“What will you do?” Vakre’s question lingered as though suspended on the rays of sunlight that stretched across the sky and crept along the snow.

“I do not know,” Raef said. He looked from one face to the next and knew behind each one were unspoken thoughts and suggestions. He was glad they remained unspoken. “I should return. My cousin will wonder.” Raef, stood, pausing as his knee threatened to buckle, grimacing at the soreness, wishing for Aldrif’s draught only to remind himself of what it had done to him, and remounted his horse. The others watched him, waiting. “I expect nothing from you.”

“You would cast us off?” Vakre said this lightly and with a small smile but Raef could hear the hurt in his voice.

“I only mean that Vannheim is mine to defend and her fate need not be entangled with yours.”

“I cannot speak for Siv or Eira, but you need not be concerned about my fate.” Vakre’s good humor vanished and his voice became sharp, reminding Raef that this was the son of Loki and that there was much he did not know about Vakre.

“We are coming with you,” Siv said.

They rode from the ring of stones, but Raef did not lead them back the way he and Eira had come. Instead, they traveled in a northwesterly direction, staying deep within the folds of the hills and treading a path not yet lit by the rising sun. Here the world was still and rooted in deep winter. An army of pine trees ruled here, each weighed down by thick snow, warriors stooped and bent by time. It seemed a forest of death to Raef, but he persisted in his course until they reached a boulder-strewn stream, frozen over and quiet. Here they turned north again, winding here and there until the trees thinned and a hut came into view. It had been abandoned long ago and the turf roof was crumbling in on itself, but Raef knew it well.

Raef pulled up his horse and held her steady for a long moment, the others fanned out behind him. Vakre asked him what they were doing there but Raef’s only reply was to slide from the saddle and take slow, lurching steps through the clearing until he was ten paces from the hut. With each step he took, the world around him faded, his companions all but forgotten, leaving only the hut, Raef, and a woman’s screams inside his head.

Raef sank to his knees, oblivious of the snow and the pain in his knee, seeing the hut wreathed in fire, seeing Svanja smile at him and then burst into flames, her hair blazing as she screamed his name. Raef stared, his heart pounding, the labyrinth crushing him once again. At last he forced his eyes closed and, though he still saw the flames in the darkness behind his lids, he was able to reclaim a hold on his true surroundings.

When he opened his eyes, the hut was nothing more than a wooden ruin, unscarred by fire, unblackened by smoke, and Svanja’s voice had faded into the snow. His companions had dismounted and stood behind him. He turned to them, half-dreading and half-hoping they would demand an explanation. They kept silent and Raef mounted his horse once more. He quickened their pace, eager to put distance between himself and the hut. The labyrinth had found a crack in Yggdrasil and reared an ugly head into Midgard, relentless in its conquest of his mind.

But distance was not enough, for their path out of the trees took them to the narrow end of a snaking lake, a place populated by a smattering of buildings and more sheep than men. Here they met with a well-traveled, snow-crusted road and a single cart loaded down with wood and drawn by a pair of sturdy oxen. No matter how the oxen strained, the cart was stuck in mud hiding beneath the snow and an older man, his beard thick and grey and his cheeks ruddy in the cold air, struggled to push the cart free.

Raef pulled up and the four of them helped the old man push and twist until at last the wheel broke free and the oxen were able to pull the cart away from the mud. Only then did Raef look under the old man’s hood and, though the other man’s face lit up on sight of Raef, Raef had to remind himself to draw breath.

“Lord, you have done me a great kindness,” the old man said, beaming. “Do you know me, lord? Long has it been since I last saw your face, but I would know it anywhere. I am Beomir, lord, and my—”

“Your daughter,” Raef broke in, “yes, Svanja.” He tried to smile.

“Never long separated, the two of you in your youth,” Beomir said. “I never regretted moving away from the shadow of your hall, but for the loss of your friendship, lord. She missed you for many seasons.”

“And now?”

Beomir’s smile turned sad. “Now it is we who must miss her, lord. She died not twelve days past.”

Raef’s heart turned to stone, his already cold skin freezing as a knot of ice spread from his stomach through all his limbs. “How?”

“Caught in a fire,” Beomir said, shaking his head. “House burned down around her before she could get out. One of the children, too, though her husband and the older girl made it out.”

“I am sorry,” Raef heard himself say, a faint voice beneath the thundering in his ears, the helpless screams rising again until Raef could bear it no longer. “I am sorry,” he said again, turning, fleeing, to his horse. He pulled himself up into the saddle and with a furious kick they were off, the mare bounding through the snow, the icy lake but a blur alongside them.

He rode until the horse began to weaken and they found him high in the hills, seated above a cliff that in spring would be awash in waterfalls. Here the wind was fierce and snow began to swirl, some falling from swift grey clouds, some picked off the ground in puffs of white. And yet Raef paid it no mind and he sat with his cloak hanging loose rather than pulled tight, his gaze on the far horizon. He heard his friends approach, heard their horses snorting hot breath, heard feet crunch to the ground as they dismounted.

It was Vakre who approached alone. He sat by Raef, perched on a boulder that brought them to eye level. “Who was Svanja?” he asked.

Raef kept his eyes fixed on the streaks of sunlight that split through the grey clouds in the distance. “Her father lived in our village. We grew up together. She was the third girl I ever kissed, but kissing her taught me what it was all for. When her uncle died, her father moved them out to the family farm. I saw her twice, perhaps three times, after that.”

Vakre waited.

“I think,” Raef began, unsure, “I think I could have saved her. But I let her die.”

The wind gusted and snow settled on Vakre’s eyelashes. He blinked the flakes away. “Tell me what happened to you, Raef.”

And so Raef took his mind back to that fateful day in Axsellund, when the crescent moon had drifted on the sky like a boat upon the sea, and he began to tell his story. He left nothing out. He began with the ship and his first moments of consciousness. He took Vakre to Alfheim, aware then that Siv and Eira were listening, and told of its strange forests and stranger inhabitants, of the Guardians and Finnoul’s rebellion, of the dragon-kin and his near-death in the barren land. It was hard to find the words to describe how he journeyed from Alfheim to Jötunheim. The glittering bridge, the doorway to another set of stars, were vivid in his mind and yet paled when spoken of. Vakre listened, his face still. Raef told of tricking Mogthrasir, of Hrodvelgr’s prison and arena, of Bara and the aid she lent, of Hrodvelgr’s death. When at last it came to the labyrinth, Raef paused to steady his racing heart, and then he pushed back into the darkness. As he told Vakre of that bleak place, of what he had seen, of how it had eaten at him until he began to crumble in mind and body, he slipped back among the blood stones, closing his eyes without even realizing it.

He related the vision of Svanja in a quiet voice and might have stopped there but Vakre’s eyes encouraged him to continue, and he told of Odin, the grim confirmation of the coming battle that would consume the nine realms, and the dire, unknown fate he had foretold for Raef.

When it was finished, Raef’s words taken with the wind, they sat in silence until Vakre spoke. “Svanja’s death was not of your making.”

“And yet, if I had,” Raef began, but Vakre cut him off.

“No.”

“And what of you? And Eira? Siv? I watched you die a thousand deaths and stood by helplessly. Is that to be my fate, then?”

“I would not claim to know your fate, but there are times we all must watch those we care for suffer. That is the nature of life.”

“You should go. There is only darkness ahead of me. Spare yourself from that.”

“There is nothing to spare myself from, Raef. Darkness is ahead of us all and the final battle looms. Distancing myself from you will make no difference.” Vakre leaned forward, his voice solemn and earnest. “You are not at fault.”

The snowstorm had settled and big flakes fell undisturbed by wind. Raef, feeling the cold now, pulled his cloak tight. Vakre’s words seemed to delve into the dark corners of his heart, bringing faint hope of light.

“You survived a crucible, Raef, one that most would not. There is no shame in fear, but what matters most is what you do now with the life that you have carved out of the clutches of death. Or would you linger in doubt, caught up still in the web of this labyrinth for the rest of your days?”

Raef was quiet for a moment. “One thing sustained me. I made a vow before the gods to avenge my father.”

“I will help you however I can.”

Raef shook his head. “I am no closer to knowing the truth behind his murder than I was the day he died.”

“Would you give up, then?” Vakre spoke quietly but there was an edge in his voice.

The sky broke above them, casting light through the still falling snow. A shadow crossed over the sun and Raef looked up to see a raven, black wings spread wide, riding the air. It circled and descended, settling into a tree. It cocked its head to the side, giving every impression it was waiting for Raef’s answer.

“No.” And with that simple word Raef felt a heaviness lift from his shoulders. He had found his purpose again, had reclaimed something that pulled at him stronger than the darkness.

Vakre went to his horse and lifted something from the saddlebag. “I kept this, in case.” He handed it to Raef, who unwrapped the cloth to find the broken axe and the hilt of the sword that had shattered at the burning lake. The grip was smooth beneath his fingers, familiar in all the right places. It only lacked the steel to become part of Raef once again.

SEVENTEEN

T
he
hall was
full to bursting when Raef returned at sunset. Warriors spilled out onto the steps, flowing down around Raef and his companions, their eager faces shining with pride. They called to him and he answered. All their faces he knew well for they had fought with him at the burning lake and more than one had healing burns to prove it. But their purpose there was unknown to him until Isolf, a wide grin on his face and Finnolf at his heels, stepped from the hall.

“Cousin,” Raef said.

“I have summoned these men in your name, lord, to ask but one thing of you. Finnolf sent riders before the break of day to spread the word and they have only just arrived, thirsty for sight of their lord and strong mead to share. And more will come.” Isolf spread his arms. “You were lost to us, taken from your proper seat before your time, and yet the gods have returned you to Vannheim. What greater sign could we ask for?”

“What do you speak of, cousin?”

Isolf waved his hands. “No, no, I am not the one to say it. Let it be their voices you hear.” He stepped back, leaving Raef alone on the steps, and the men gathered close about him, shouldering past Vakre, Siv, and Eira.

A single warrior pushed forward. He was built like an ox and bore scars all over. His head was shaven on the left side, leaving the right long and tied back in thick, twisted ropes, and the bare skin was inked with three crows pecking the flesh from a corpse. His beard hung in a single, heavy braid that reached his belt and was tied off with a band of gold, the only decoration he allowed himself for he scorned the wearing of arm rings. He was Dvalarr the Crow and his reputation had been built on the bodies of many men.

“What need has Vannheim for the kings who war in the east? They squabble in the aftermath of the great victory you won, lord. The glory is yours. We ask that you take what you have earned, that you show Vannheim’s strength. We name you king!” This last Dvalarr roared and the men echoed him, their cries fierce and full of battle-lust.

Raef let the cheers die before answering their call. He held out his hands and was glad when they did not tremble. “What king could ask for more loyal men?”

The chorus was deafening as the warriors bellowed their approval. The armed guards at the top of the steps beat their spears against their shields while those who stood in the snow stomped their feet, making the earth shiver beneath Raef. Raef let the cries wash over him, clasped forearm after forearm, and did not protest when Dvalarr hoisted him onto one shoulder. He was carried into the hall and set down on a table. One by one, the men knelt and swore oaths of loyalty, mixing their words with blood, their faces solemn now, each touching the hammer amulet he wore after nicking the skin of his palm. Raef nodded his thanks to each until at last only Isolf knelt before him.

“Cousin,” Isolf said, holding out a clenched fist that dripped crimson blood, “a great fate has led me to you in this hour. By the blood we share, by the love between our mothers, I swear to you my endless loyalty. I will be your most faithful servant and if I do you wrong, let the gods strike me down and deny me Valhalla.”

Raef stepped down from the tabletop, his knee aching and weary though he fought to hide the pain, and lifted his cousin from his knees. “From this day forth, you are my cousin no longer. You are my brother.” The warriors cheered and Raef embraced Isolf, then drew back and called out, “The ale will flow this night.”

Behind the crowd, a single face, impervious to the tumult, caught Raef’s eye. Josurr, the second priest of Odin, younger and gentler than Fylkir, but no less devoted to his duties, the telltale signs of recent sacrifice still staining the curve of his ears and tracing the length of his jaw. The priest watched Raef with quiet eyes that betrayed nothing and Raef wondered if the Allfather had given some sign, some indication that a king would be made that night.

The night was clear and brittle, the stars burning hot and searing the dark sky. Raef had found peace and quiet outside the hall, seeking the steps to a small terrace at the rear of the hall where he might observe the stars, and they him. Finnolf had tried to follow his new king, intent on keeping Raef in sight, but Raef had gently turned him aside and asked that he search out Vakre, Eira, and Siv, who had not made their presence known in the hall.

Only Siv and Vakre arrived, taking the stairs without hurry, their boots scuffing the stone. They paused on the threshold of the terrace.

“Shall I kneel as they did?” Vakre asked, his voice tight, his words clipped.

“I did not ask them to kneel.”

“And yet you did not stop them.”

“What could I do?” Raef’s voice rang out across the stone. There was no good answer and none was offered. “If I had refused, Vannheim would be ripped from me. They would have slipped away, their disappointment keen, their anger at being slighted sharp. And they would have sought out the vultures who already covet this hall, strengthening them until one rose above the rest. My place is on a rowing bench with the sea road ahead of me and the sun rising at my back, not atop a mound of corpses who have died to make me king. But I will not be the Skallagrim who loses Vannheim and the Vestrhall. If I must be king to secure my home, then so be it.”

“Being king may not keep you lord of Vannheim,” Siv said.

“What do you mean?”

“A king must face his foes in battle. You will be drawn from Vannheim, forced to meet the Hammerling or Fengar in the field. And when you are gone, the vultures will descend for they know they have gone too far to escape retribution. They must see you overthrown, or see their own deaths.”

“There are many hands I trust to keep Vannheim safe should I be absent.”

“Whose? Your cousin’s? Blood he might be, but loyal he is not,” Vakre said.

“Take care of what you say,” Raef said, his anger rising. “He is my family, the only blood I have left to me.”

“I do not trust him.”

Raef stepped close until only a hand’s width separated their faces and grabbed Vakre’s collar. “Isolf has shown his loyalty. He might have had me killed the moment he saw me. Give me proof or do not speak of that which you know nothing of.” Vakre did not flinch, did not look away, but neither did he speak. At last Raef broke eye contact and looked to Siv. “Where is Eira?”

“I do not know.”

Raef wanted to rage, to fight, but he swallowed it all. “Find her,” he said. Siv placed a hand on Raef’s arm and looked as though she might speak. “Find her,” Raef repeated, his voice harsh. Siv’s hand retreated and the warmth that normally lingered in her eyes vanished. She descended from the terrace without a word. Raef waited until she was out of sight, keeping his gaze averted from Vakre, though he could feel the son of Loki’s eyes burning into the back of his head, then traced Siv’s steps and withdrew to his chamber.

He spent the night staring into his empty hearth, the ashes raked clean. Though he could feel exhaustion behind his eyes and longed for sleep, it was a comfort that danced out of reach. When this became clear, he gave up the chase and began to work on strengthening himself. He had eaten well in the past few days, had begun to see flesh fill back into the places it had inhabited before, and a mirror revealed that he looked the part of a king even if he did not feel it. Beneath his skin, his muscles ached merely from riding a horse, and his troublesome knee quivered when asked to bear his weight. And so Raef made it quiver as he squatted on that single leg time and time again. Twice it gave out on him and he fell to his chamber floor and felt a burn course up and down his entire leg, but as the sweat dripped down his forehead Raef felt something akin to satisfaction as well.

When he had done enough, he burst from his chamber and found Finnolf, as he knew he would, half-asleep outside the door. The captain blinked bleary-eyed at Raef.

“Long has it been since I crossed blades. I am out of practice.” It was only a half-truth. He had battled in Alfheim with a strange-shaped blade and he had fought in Hrodvelgr’s arena with a sword that threatened to break with every swing, but he felt an urgent need to hold a true sword in his hand once more and to rediscover his bladework and battle skills.

In his father’s armory, Raef passed over the sword that Einarr had used, though he was glad to see it resting there, returned to its home. Instead he chose a simple sword, the kind granted to the warriors who watched the gates and walls of the Vestrhall. It was made for this purpose and would serve well enough. Raef hooked the scabbard on his belt and made for the yard, grabbing a shield on the way.

Finnolf waited there. He yawned once, but his sword and shield were at the ready. The yard was unlit by torches, the moonlight turning the snow to silver.

Raef started slow, taking note of the precision of each step he took, of the extension of his sword arm, engaging his shoulders and the muscles of his abdomen. He and Finnolf established a rhythm, a slow dance that neither knew the next steps to. They flowed across the snow, a sword thrust there, a shield raised there, a spin and sudden slash there. When they paused, each man’s breath came faster, puffing into the winter air.

With a nod, they began again, but the dance was ended and Raef’s attack was swift and furious. Finnolf fell back, momentarily off balance, but soon found his footing and they exchanged blows until Raef caught Finnolf’s shield on the hilt of his sword and ripped it from the captain’s grasp. His own he cast aside and pressed forward on Finnolf, a storm gathering deep in his chest. His onslaught was short and brutal and Raef was blind to how Finnolf fell back, how the captain deflected now in desperation, how his eyes showed real fear. It took only three slashes of Raef’s flashing sword to put Finnolf on the ground, and even then Raef did not stop.

“Lord,” Finnolf cried as Raef’s sword descended.

Raef pulled up short, Finnolf’s voice breaking through at last. He took in the sight of the young captain sprawled at his feet and saw he had drawn blood across the muscles of Finnolf’s upper arm.

Horrified, Raef dropped his sword arm. He knelt at Finnolf’s side and saw alarm still burning in the captain’s eyes. “Forgive me. I was not myself,” Raef said, his voice stumbling. “Forgive me.” His own pain roared to life then, his left knee a ball of agony somehow drowned in the fury of swordwork. Together, they sat in the snow, their heartbeats slowing to a normal pace, and watched the sun rise over Vannheim.

When he felt he could manage it, Raef struggled to his feet and offered his hand to Finnolf. The captain took it and their eyes met.

“This was not my intent, Finnolf, believe me.”

“I know.” The captain had lost his fear and regained his natural trust and for that Raef was grateful beyond words.

“How many riders did you send across the land?”

“Twenty. Six returned with the warriors who answered the summons yesterday. I expect we may see five or six more by nightfall, though no doubt they will return with far greater speed than the men they were sent to find. The warriors will trickle in at a much slower rate. The rest ride to the farthest reaches of your lands, lord. It will be days before we see them.”

“And how will we be alerted should an attack come from Red-beard or Thoken?”

“I have men patrolling the second ring of hills, lord. We will see them if they come.”

“Good.” Raef looked again at the wound he had given Finnolf. The young captain was pale. “Get that taken care of,” he said. “I will have need of you in these coming days.” Finnolf grinned and disappeared through the hall’s wooden doors leaving Raef relieved to know he had at least one loyal warrior.

It was early yet, but Hoyvik the village smith was hard at work, bringing his sleeping forge to life again, his young apprentice scampering about to obey his every soft-spoken word. Hoyvik’s work was renowned in the western lands and men sought him from distant homes in hopes of receiving a blade of his making. His work was costly, but the results were worth every coin. Hoyvik, his father, and his grandfather before him had been making swords on the edge of the fjord for more than one hundred years and Raef’s first blade, sized and weighted for a youth, had come from this forge. There was no other smith he would rather trust the making of a new sword to.