The Hills of Home (The Song of the Ash Tree Book 2) (23 page)

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 her 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

S
p
rinting 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 the 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.

Raef had cut down two men before the raiders began to fight back, their surprise turned to ferocity, but there was no chance for them to form a coherent defense for Raef’s warriors pressed from both sides, pinning them into a narrow channel where every man had to fight for himself. Raef seized on his next target, his sword slashing down as he aimed for the warrior’s shoulder. The man raised his shield in time to stop the blade from biting his flesh and Raef’s sword caught firm in the wood. Without hesitating, Raef released his grip on the sword and whipped his axe from his belt with his right hand, chopping into the warrior’s left side with a single swift motion. The axe went deep and the warrior lurched and arched his neck, a howl of pain forming on his lips. He was silenced with an arrow to the throat and Raef retrieved both axe and sword from the body, his sights already set on his next kill.

Three more men fell to his blades before the spray of blood caught Raef in the face, blinding him to the crush of battle. Raef raised his arm to wipe away the hot, sticky blood with his sleeve, but before he could see clearly, a small knife tore open the side of his thigh, thrown from a distance by a practiced hand. Raef roared against the pain and, dropping his axe, put his hand to the wound, whirling at the same time to raise his sword against the oncoming charge of an enemy warrior. Blade met blade and the force of the charge cost Raef his balance, sending him sliding through the slushy snow covering the beach. Yanking a knife from his belt, Raef thrust it into his opponent’s neck just as they toppled into the icy waters of the fjord.

Raef sunk, the heavy weight of the dying warrior pinning him into the shallow water. The sudden cold had elicited a sharp indrawn breath and his mouth and nose flooded. Shoving the dead weight away, Raef surged to the surface, choking, gasping, and spluttering all at once. In vain, Raef’s fingers searched the rocky bottom for his sword and he blinked away the water from his eyes only to see a figure leap from the nearest of the longships, sword poised to drive into Raef’s chest. Throwing himself into deeper water, Raef eluded the death blow, and then both men were on their feet, submerged to the thigh and unarmed, for the impact against the water had cost the warrior his grip on his sword.

“Death to Skallagrim,” his opponent screamed, then launched himself at Raef, sending them both under the water once more. Raef twisted and lashed out with his feet, one boot missing and the other making contact with something that felt like a skull. Hands grabbed at Raef’s clothing, scratching, clawing, seizing him around his waist until they were tangled together, a mass of thrashing limbs. They tumbled for a moment and Raef felt his lungs begin to burn. They surfaced together, in shallower water now, and then Raef found the bottom with his feet. Planting one leg, he brought his other knee to the warrior’s chest, felt the ribs crack, felt the breath burst from him in a sudden painful gust, and the warrior went limp just long enough for Raef to grab him by the neck with both hands. Raef kneed him again and then plunged him under the water. Tightening his grip, Raef pushed down until the warrior was on the bottom. The warrior kicked and lashed out with his arms, but already his strength was fading, throttled from him by Raef’s hands.

When he was quiet, when the thrashing had stopped and the bubbles had vanished, Raef held on for a moment longer, then released the drowned man. The body floated up, the face frozen in agony, the dead hands reaching for Raef. Raef recognized that face. It was not one he knew well, not one he could put a name to, but it belonged to Vannheim, to his father, to him. And now that man had died cursing the name of Skallagrim.

Raef dragged the body from the water and let it fall on the shore, retrieved his sword from the shallows, then headed back into the killing ground. Bodies littered the snow, their dead limbs choking the living into a confined space. There was no more beauty, no more skill, only desperate bloodletting.

A voice sounded over the din of battle. “Skallagrim!”

Raef searched the melee while the voice roared twice more, and at last he knew who had brought death to the Vestrhall. Snorren Thoken had the broken shaft of an arrow protruding from his shoulder and his shield was a splintered ruin, but somehow he and a small circle of warriors held their ground, defying the efforts of Raef’s men to draw them out from the safety of their comrades.

But the moment Raef’s eyes locked with Snorren’s, the dark-bearded warrior broke from the circle and began to close the distance between them, heedless of the danger around him. Raef took a deep breath and glanced quickly at the wound in his thigh where the knife had ripped open his flesh. The cold water and the battle-fire had numbed the pain but did nothing to slow the flow of blood. Tearing a piece of cloth from a dead man, Raef wrapped it around his thigh and tied a hasty knot, all while Snorren bore down on him with eyes blind to everything but Raef. The cloth would help, but it was a poor bandage and would not long stem the loss of blood. Raef needed to end this fight, and soon.

Raef adjusted his grip on his sword, wishing he had time to recover his axe from where it lay further up the beach in the snow, and plucked a shield from the ground as Snorren broke into a run, a snarl fixed on his blood-streaked face. They were but ten paces apart when a figure stepped from the shadows, sword raised in defiance of Snorren’s charge, face obscured by the night. Snorren did not slow, but the unknown warrior did not shy away and he threw his shield, catching Snorren in the chest and throwing the bigger man off balance. Spinning away, Snorren kept his feet, but his eyes were on the new challenger now. His steps were quick and sure, his sword a dull gleam in the starlight as he charged the unknown warrior, who did not move. Raef could not understand why, and then, just as Snorren was in striking distance, the warrior took a single, limping, lurching step to the side, a feeble attempt to avoid the oncoming sword, and Raef knew.

He heard himself shout, felt the shield drop from his hand, felt his legs begin to churn beneath him, but he was too late. Snorren’s sword stabbed into the man’s belly and he dropped as a stone does to a river bottom. Raef was upon Snorren the next instant and he shoved his blade into Snorren’s back and up through his shoulders until the tip protruded out of his chest, tickling his chin. Snorren writhed, his mouth working furiously but no sound came out.

Raef leaned in close to the dying man’s ear and said, “My father waits for you in Valhalla, usurper, and will kill you a thousand times again.”

Shoving Snorren off his sword, Raef dropped to his knees next to the warrior who had taken Snorren’s blade for him. Blood poured from the wound, black like the night sky above, and though Raef put his hands to the ruptured flesh, he knew it was hopeless. The warrior looked up at him, a feeble but content smile on his pale, sweaty face.

“Why, Gudrik?” Raef’s voice tumbled out of him, ragged and broken.

“Do not be angry with me, Raef.” Gudrik spoke quietly but his voice was as calm and fluid as ever.

“Never. But why would you throw your life away like this?”

Gudrik’s breath caught and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. “What is my life worth if I cannot defend my friend?” Raef began to protest, but Gudrik persisted. “I made this choice, Raef. Now I may go to my fathers in Valhalla and know I am worthy of a place there.”

If words could heal Gudrik’s fatal wound, if words could make the poet see Raef’s grief, see that there was no shame in living a life of music and words, crippled as Gudrik might be, he would have poured them out of his heart. But he would not tarnish Gudrik’s final act. With a shaky, bloody hand, Raef touched Gudrik’s cheek.

“Then go in peace, friend. Look for my coming.” It was a lie. Raef knew he would never join Gudrik in Valhalla, but he kept that to himself.

Gudrik tried to smile again, but it turned to a grimace and the poet coughed, his body wracked with the grip of death. Seizing Raef’s hand, Gudrik squeezed, his eyes going wide as he stared into Raef’s face. His body gave two tiny jerks and then Raef saw the spark of life slip from Gudrik’s eyes and the hand that gripped Raef’s went limp.

A violent, angry roar filled Raef’s ears and he realized it was his own howl of grief as he tipped his head back and screamed to the stars.

Around him, the battle was ended and his men were victorious. To a man, the raiders had been slaughtered, though the cost to Raef’s men was high. Only half of his warriors were on their feet. The other half lay in the snow with the dead.

“Lord.” A warrior looked down on Raef, who was not yet ready to let go of Gudrik. “What should we do with the bodies of the enemy?”

Raef was weary of death. “Burn them. Give them the honor they might have earned, had Snorren not turned their ears and hearts against me.”

“All?”

Raef’s gaze slid to the corpse of Snorren Thoken. “Take his head. Put it above the gate. Let Snorren’s skull serve as a warning.”

“And the body?”

“Throw it in the fjord. The fish can fight over his flesh.”

“It shall be done, lord.”

With the fire of battle burned out and Raef’s soaked clothes freezing in the air, the cold had begun to sink into Raef, and yet still he knelt beside Gudrik, the tears he felt in his heart remaining unshed.