The Hills of Home (The Song of the Ash Tree Book 2) (22 page)

Raef approached, the peace he found in battle worn about him like a cloak, his heartbeat steady, his sword held low. He reached the circle of his warriors and Red-beard snarled at the sight of him.

“This one is mine,” Raef said, his voice level. The fury that had boiled over in sight of the nidstang now only simmered beneath his skin. This was battle, nothing more, and his opponent was a man with an axe, not a man who had followed his father into battle, had defended Vannheim with his blood.

Raef’s warriors stepped back, giving their lord the space to fight, the rest now looking on as Red-beard’s warriors had dwindled to only a handful held at sword point.

Raef circled left but he had gone no more than two steps when Red-beard charged, sprinting forward. Raef stepped sideways and the axe glanced off his shield, but Rudrak spun quickly and Raef had to dodge to avoid the axe again, almost losing his footing. Roaring, Red-beard pressed forward again, but the snow had grown slick beneath the trampling feet and his balance was off, leaving his shoulder unprotected. Raef’s sword found its mark, slicing through leather with ease and opening a deep gash in Red-beard’s flesh that he followed with a quick slash to Rudrak’s exposed back as the warrior stumbled.

Raef gave him no time to recover, and Rudrak got his shield up just in time to stop Raef’s arcing blade meant for his neck. The shield splintered and Rudrak dropped it, using his axe two-handed now to shield himself as Raef drove him backward. When the axe haft, too, broke, Rudrak howled and flung the head of the axe at Raef. It missed and fell to the snow. Rudrak went for his knife but Raef was too quick. His sword cut into Red-beard’s thigh, biting deep into the muscle, and he dropped to the ground.

It was not a fatal blow, not yet, and Raef loomed over Red-beard. Their eyes met and there was no regret in either face. Raef kicked the knife from Rudrak’s hand. “Your treachery is not deserving of death in battle.” Raef raised his sword. “But I will take this,” the blade came arcing down and sliced off Rudrak’s right hand, “for with this you reached out to take Vannheim from me.” Rudrak roared in pain and blood gushed from the stump of his arm.

Raef looked up. The snow fell still, dusting the shoulders of the men looking on. “Tie him up,” Raef said, pointing to the trees not far from the battle site. Red-beard was dragged, cursing still, to the trunk of a wide oak, its bare limbs hovering over him in judgment. He was bound and then Raef stuffed Rudrak’s hand into the bindings so the bloody fingers seemed to reach around Rudrak’s throat. A final length of rope was wrapped around his neck and shoulders to hold it there, but even though he bled heavily from his leg and the severed limb, Rudrak’s eyes still showed hatred and fury.

“The wolves were close last night, Rudrak. We heard them while we burned your farm.” Raef leaned close. “How long do you think you will last?” Rudrak seethed but Raef turned his back and wiped his sword on a dead man’s cloak. He surveyed the scene around him. Only a few of his men were dead. Others, bloody but satisfied, watched and waited for his command. By his estimation, Rudrak had attacked with no more than twenty-five men. A foolish decision and they had paid for it. Only eight lived yet, and they were on their knees, heads hanging. He might have asked questions about the nidstang, might have tried to discover if Rudrak had thought of the curse on his own, but he did not want to remind his warriors of the beheaded horse, not when victory, small as it was, had bolstered their spirits, nor did he wish to voice his suspicions about the priests of Odin.

“What of them?” Eira asked, her sword slick with blood.

Raef stepped close to the huddled prisoners. “Look at me,” he said, for he would know their faces before he sent them to their deaths. The men did as he asked and he looked from one familiar face to the next. Three trembled, their fear visible for all to see, pleas of mercy on their lips. One could not hold Raef’s gaze and his pants were wet with his own urine. The other four stared with dead eyes, knowing this fate had been of their own making. “Kill them,” he said. He looked to Eira. “Make it clean and quick.”

Only two babbled, trying to extend their lives, but Raef had already moved on and he did not watch them die. The fury of battle had held the pain in his knee at bay, but now it roared back, protesting the movement he had required of it. Raef limped to his horse, glad of its solid strength to lean on. He forced himself to draw breath as he fought to control the pain and busied his mind and hands with his saddle. The men stripped the dead of items of value, arm rings and amulets, and then gathered at their disheveled camp and collected the horses. They moved on, leaving Rudrak to die of his wounds or meet the wolves when night fell.

They spent the hours before midday searching the area for any sign of further followers of Red-beard, but they found nothing beyond some horses tethered not far from the site of the battle. Raef let the men rummage through the saddle bags for anything worth taking, then, tying the horses to their own, they turned toward home.

TWENTY

“
S
o, Re
d-beard is
dead.” Isolf passed a cup of ale to Raef, who had sunk onto a bench by the fire. He gave another to Eira. The hall was empty around them, the last warriors having trickled into the night. Isolf raised his own cup. “To victory.”

“To victory,” Raef said. They had returned with the setting sun, riding hard and through much of the night to speed the journey back to the hall. He was weary and ready to retreat to his chamber, but Isolf seemed eager to talk. “What news? Any word from Finnolf?” The young captain and his men were still in the south of Vannheim.

Isolf shook his head. “None. But warriors from Silfravall raided two farms four days ago. A single survivor carried word of the raid to me.”

“There was no one to help them?”

“None close enough. They were isolated from other farms and none were warriors themselves.”

Raef grimaced. “Silfravall’s incursions will continue and they will grow bolder unless they are checked.”

“Send warriors.”

“I should go myself.”

“It may be that you will be needed here.”

Raef closed his eyes, and tried not to think of Vakre. If the son of Loki were there, Raef would send him to Silfravall in an instant. “You then, brother.” Raef did not look at Eira. He did not want to see if she was disappointed at being passed over.

“When?”

“How many men do you have?”

“Forty.”

“The ones who rode with me need rest. Take your own and ten of those who remained here.” He looked hard at Isolf. “Can you do what must be done with that number?”

Isolf grinned. “They will rue the day they entered your lands.”

“Then I want you gone tomorrow.” Raef leaned back in his chair. “Still no sign of Greyshield?”

“None.” Isolf spat. “Coward.”

“He will have seen what was done to Red-beard. It will fuel him.”

“You still think he will come?”

Raef nodded. “I do not doubt it.”

“Let him come, then.” Isolf took a swig from his cup and wiped his lips on his sleeve. “You say you sent five men to scout Greyshield land?”

“Yes. I fear it was a mistake. They should have returned by now.”

“They may yet.” Isolf refilled his cup and Eira’s. Raef had hardly drunk his and he felt his eyelids growing heavy. Excusing himself, Raef retired to his chamber, sure he would sleep deeply. But the gods gave him no respite and the dreams came once more, one after the other, horrible visions of death and destruction with Raef helpless against it all. There was a new dream that night, though, and he woke from it with a layer of sweat cooling on his forehead and chest. He had stood among the standing stones, the ring not far from the Vestrhall, but instead of stones he faced twelve nidstang poles and the horse heads, their eyeballs bloody, laughed at him, each with the voice of the Deepminded.

Upon waking, Raef could not seem to steady his heart. Long had it been since Loki in the form of the Deepminded had invaded his thoughts, and Raef was unsettled at the return. His chamber seemed small and unnaturally warm and Raef, his mind turning from the Deepminded to the visit he would have to pay to the priests of Odin, did not sleep again that night.

Isolf led fifty warriors from the gates the next day, between the green and gold banners of Vannheim snapping in a stiff wind above the walls. Raef watched them go, torn between a desire to go after them, to show the Silfravall raiders the wrath of Skallagrim, and a desire to track down Finnolf in the south of Vannheim. He trusted the young captain to deal with Thoken. Finnolf had Dvalarr at his side, a seasoned, fierce warrior who would give his last breath to see the job done. And yet Raef itched to do something other than wait in his hall, wait for news of Finnolf, wait for news of Isolf, wait for the Hammerling or Fengar to fall on him with axes and spears.

Once, as a boy, Raef had watched his father wait when beset by an enemy, and he began to understand now, as he had not then, the patience and strength it took to not act.

Eira was worse than Raef. She paced in his chamber while Raef bathed in preparation for his visit to the priests of Odin. She strode up and down the hall, feral and restless, as Raef spoke first with his steward, Ulli, then Aldrif, the healer. Raef found he did not wish to watch and when at last he was free to seek the priests’ cave, he was glad to be away from her.

He had visited the cave many times as a boy, often with his father but also in secret, eager to spy on their strange rituals. He had never seen more than the usual sacrifices, the familiar chants, and he soon grew out of his fascination, attending sacrifices only when his father required it.

The cave was not far from the Vestrhall. It sat among the hills just to the north, the entrance disguised by a grove of thick pines among the bare trees of summer. Even at a distance Raef could smell the peculiar smoke that wafted from the priests’ fire. Once he had asked what they burned that was so strange but Fylkir, no older than Raef was now but already debilitated by the illness that would deprive him of the use of his hand, had refused to answer.

But it was Josurr who was there to greet Raef. The young priest was leaving the cave as Raef approached, two stone pitchers tucked into the crook of one arm, the other hand clutching a small axe with long, nimble fingers. If he was surprised to see Raef, he did not show it, though Raef had long suspected that an affinity for concealing emotions was the first requirement for being honored with the priestly robes.

“Skallagrim.”

“Josurr.”

The priest studied Raef for a moment. “I am fetching water. Will you help me?”

Raef followed Josurr to a nearby pool, frozen over, though the ice showed scars in many places where the priests had broken through before. Raef took the axe from Josurr and began to hack at the ice. Though he longed to ask if Fylkir was waiting in the cave, he knew the priest would not answer until the work was done.

No words were spoken until the pitchers were filled with icy, clear water, until they returned to the shadows of the pines and Josurr led the way into the cave. As Raef’s eyes adjusted to the dim light of the wide-mouthed cave, he saw a smoking, earth-covered pit, heavy furs piled on two thin pallets of straw, a small iron pot heating over a fire, and crude shelves stocked with dried meat, hard cheese, pressed herbs, and honeycomb. The priests, recipients of gifts from those who wished to know something of the next harvest, of an unborn child’s future, never lacked for food or delicacies. Farther back in the recesses of the cave, Raef knew he would find barrels of winter vegetables, dried fruit, and foraged mushrooms.

The animal sacrifices were always performed outside the cave under the open sky, but evidence of the rituals was everywhere. Slender knives wrapped in eel skins, antlers and small skulls with sharp teeth, the withering heart of a hare resting in a wooden bowl, waiting to be examined for signs from the gods.

There was no sign of Fylkir.

Josurr, after pouring some of the fresh water into the pot over the fire, placed the pitchers to the side and closed them up with wooden stoppers. Only then did he look to Raef, who felt the old, childish prickle of anxiety as he wondered if he had bathed thoroughly enough, if his hair was neat enough. The priests required cleanliness and had the right to turn away those they deemed polluted.

“Why have you come?”

“Is Fylkir here?”

“Eagle-in-the-Eye,” Josurr said smoothly, using the name the other priest preferred, “has gone away.”

“Away,” Raef echoed. “Did he not tell you where?”

“He is my superior. It was not for me to ask.”

“I thought priests kept no secrets from each other.”

The mask of calm on Josurr’s face twitched but he held his tongue.

“I am not in the habit of speaking ill of Odin’s priests, Josurr, you know this. But we both know Fylkir to be ill-tempered and vindictive, no matter his skills.” Raef paused, watching Josurr’s face. Still the priest revealed little. “I need to know if he would go so far as to act against me.”

It was the wrong thing to say and Josurr bristled. “A priest of Odin does not answer to men, even to a king. When a priest speaks it is with the weight of Asgard. He is not bound to uphold your will.”

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.