The Hills of Home (The Song of the Ash Tree Book 2) (29 page)

“A brave little thing,” Vakre said, grinning. “Her brother seems to lack the courage.” But no sooner had they turned the horses back to the west than Raef spotted a smaller figure slink out of the trees and scurry to catch his sister. They continued in this manner back to the Vestrhall, a strange procession, the male cub stopping often and murmuring plaintively, and then carrying on when his sister chattered at him.

As they neared the gate, even the bold female came to a halt, ears swiveling as she processed a new world of sounds and scents.

“They will never pass through the gate,” Vakre said. “Nor should they. Let me see if I can draw them into the trees there.” He gestured to the west and north, where the hills hugged the far side of the walls. The pine forest was dense there, and the steep slopes and hidden bowls between the Vestrhall and the sea were rich with rabbits and other small game. Raef nodded and Vakre took the partially butchered deer carcass from behind his saddle. The female cub latched onto its scent and followed Vakre with eager steps. The male, far more cautious, slunk after. Raef watched as Vakre and the cubs followed the curve of the wall and then disappeared.

After accompanying Tolla to her sister’s house, Raef and Siv began to climb the hill, their horses in tow, stopping to greet Hoyvik the smith at his forge. A guard from the gate caught up to them there.

“Lord,” he shouted, out of breath, “a messenger from Bergoss is here.” Raef exchanged a look with Siv, then handed his reins to the guard.

“I will see him at the gate. Take the horses to the stable,” Raef said.

The messenger was armed with axe and sword. A short sword and broad shield hung from his horse’s saddle, and at least two knives were nestled in his belt. He waited outside the gate, head held high, not looking at the four Vannheim warriors, Finnolf among them, who, suspicious of the stranger bristling with weapons, watched with narrowed eyes, their fingers wrapped tight around their own weapons.

Raef slid past his men, placing a hand on Finnolf’s shoulder as he went. Siv followed. The stranger from Bergoss continued to stare straight ahead as Raef approached.

“Greetings,” Raef said.

“I come from Bergoss.” There was no salutation, no show of respect for Raef’s authority.

“What does Sverren have to say?” Raef opened his palms up to the sky, skin stained with the blood of the doe.

“Only this. Bergoss will never kneel to Vannheim.” The warrior puffed out his chest as though his strength alone could defend his lord and home.

The words came as no surprise, not after setting eyes on the warrior-messenger. “He pledges to the Hammerling, then? Or is it Fengar who has swayed Sverren?”

“Sverren Red-tail chooses no king.” Pride shone on his face. “Bergoss will kneel to none.”

“Then Bergoss will be obliterated,” Raef said, letting his anger show for a single instant. He stepped closer to the man and lowered his voice. “The fire of three kings and the rage of three hosts will descend upon Bergoss and every man, woman, and child will be put to the sword. Your land will be a ruin, an empty, barren place, bereft of all life.” He was pleased to see apprehension in the warrior’s eyes. “Be gone. Before I choose to send your head back to Sverren.”

The warrior did not hesitate to climb back into his saddle. He put his boots to the horse and raced away. Raef watched until he was out of sight, swallowed by the wilderness.

Finnolf and the other warriors were pleased with their lord’s response, he could see. They grinned and made lewd gestures at the retreating rider, speaking of the death and sorrow they would bring to Bergoss. Siv was quiet.

Raef turned his back on the gate and walked to the fjord, his mind a muddle of thoughts. A light snow started to fall, the flakes soft on Raef’s cheeks, the waters of the fjord grey and calm under a bleak sky. Raef reached the shore and clambered onto a rocky shelf that leaned out over the water. He tried to think of his father, to gather wisdom from Einarr, and determine what his next course of action should be, but he could conjure no more than his father’s image, and even that was rimmed in shadow.

A boot scuffed on rock behind him and Raef turned to see Siv.

“Not the time for a swim, I think,” she said as she came to stand beside him. Raef could not help but smile. “But then, perhaps kings have odd bathing habits.” She turned serious. “Those were strong words.”

“Words are only words. Sverren would be a fool to expect nothing less from me.”

“Sverren is bold to refuse to kneel to any. Though if he is brave, or mad, I cannot say.”

Raef put a hand on Siv’s shoulder. “I do not wish to speak of Sverren Red-tail, or Bergoss, or the war.” His voice was quiet and he looked into her eyes, those green eyes that had become a part of him. She did not look away. “They are far away. But you, you are here, Siv, and that is all that matters to me.” He leaned in, eyes still locked with hers, and kissed her. There was no more sky, no cold air, no birds singing in the trees, not even rocks beneath his feet. Raef knew only the feel of her lips on his and the sensation that raced across his skin. He was fire, he was air, he was life itself, and every breath was joy. He drew back, knew he was grinning like a child, and did not care. Siv grinned, too, and they both laughed, then her arms went around his neck and she kissed him again. Raef held her close and when the kiss ended, he pressed his forehead to hers and their fingers entwined at their sides.

If there were words, Raef could not find them, and in not speaking, found he did not need them.

The snow fell, faster and thicker now, catching in their hair and coating their shoulders. Raef tapped his thumb on Siv’s nose, then murmured in her ear. “I could toss you in the water.”

Siv laughed. “Try.”

“I would have to jump in after you, you see, to save you.”

“Is that so?”

“And then we would be soaking wet. And cold. And we would come down with a chill. Perhaps even fever.”

“So you will spare me, for the sake of your own health?”

Raef made a show of deliberating. “Yes, I think so.” Then without warning, he seized her at her waist and threw them both off the edge. They tumbled, then splashed into the fjord in a tangle. Raef surfaced and shook water from his hair as Siv sputtered, laughing and wiping water from her eyes.

“I thought you were wary of stromkarls,” she said, grinning.

Raef laughed, then pulled her close and gave her a quick kiss. They swam to shore, weighed down by their heavy, waterlogged cloaks. Siv was shivering but she never lost her smile as they raced back to the gate and up the hill, oblivious to the onlookers. Raef skidded to a halt in front of his chamber, his expression serious as Siv nearly collided with him, her wet boots slipping on the floor.

“You are wet. And cold.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Am I?”

“Let me remedy that.” And he pulled her into the chamber after him.

TWENTY-SEVEN

I
t was Vakre
who came knocking when twilight began to settle, when long purple shadows started to creep across the snow, when the birds grew quiet and the stars emerged. Raef, half dressed, opened the door.

“One of Finnolf’s men has come in from the hills. You should hear what he has to say,” Vakre said.

The hall was quiet but for the sound of Raef’s footsteps and the crackle of the fire. A single man, hooded, with cloak pulled tight, waited at the bottom of the steps. Isolf and Uhtred of Garhold stood to the side, watching Raef with keen eyes. Vakre and Siv followed and waited by the high table. The man cast off his hood and went to his knee in front of Raef.

“Rise. You have been watching the hills for trouble?”

“Yes, lord. I am Urlach, son of Farold, and I have come from my father’s home.”

“And what have you seen?”

“Riders, lord, twenty riders. They bear a banner of black and gold. They will not be far behind me.”

Raef thanked and dismissed Urlach, then poured himself a cup of mead. “The Hammerling,” he said. “Too small for a war party.”

“Could the Hammerling be seeking peace?” Isolf asked.

“I do not know. In his mind, I am an oath breaker. I do not think he would forgive that.” It was more than an oath that had passed between Raef and Brandulf Hammerling. The Hammerling had spared Raef’s life when he had every right to claim it. Raef looked to Siv and Vakre and knew they were thinking the same. “I will meet them outside the gates. Isolf, find Finnolf and see that he has thirty men, armed like Thor himself, ready and waiting.”

Raef returned to his chamber and gathered his sword and fur cloak. Siv secured a pair of knives to his belt for him, then tightened the end of her braid and armed herself. Raef watched her run a finger along the edge of her axe blade, then stepped close and kissed the back of her neck as she placed the axe at the small of her back. The fine hairs on her neck stood up at his touch.

“The war may yet be far away, but the Hammerling’s envoy is close,” she said, turning to face him.

Raef wrapped his arms around her and held her close. “I know,” he murmured into her hair. He took a deep breath and released her. “There. I am ready.”

A line of torches blazed outside the gate, tall ones, thrust into the snow and flickering beneath the dark sky. The warriors Raef had requested waited, Finnolf at their head. Raef was surprised to see Aelinvor with her father. She did not look at him but kept her eyes forward. Isolf lingered near the gate, his hair flaming in the light of the torches. Ten of his own men stood with him

They waited. The warriors stamped their feet to keep warm. Raef stood shoulder to shoulder with Vakre and looked back, finding Siv’s dark figure at the top of the wall, bow at the ready, the western sky a faint glow behind her.

They heard the riders before they saw them, and then dark shapes came to the edge of the circle of light, horses snorting, faces in shadow. Only one came closer, and he dismounted, then shed his hood. Raef knew that face.

“I seek Raef Skallagrim, lord of Vannheim.”

“You have found him.” Raef took two steps forward.

“Greetings, lord,” he began, but Raef cut him off.

“I know who you are. I remember you. We met at the gathering. You came to my father’s tent on behalf of the Hammerling. Now you come to me. But the last time we met, you did not give me your name.”

“I am Edvard.”

“You are no warrior. Nor farmer. You were with us when we drove south into Solheim, but not when we traveled north again to meet the Palesword. Tell me, Edvard, what are you and what place do you hold with the Hammerling?” Edvard was quiet, his expression resentful. “Answer me, tell me why the Hammerling trusts you to speak for him when you do not fight beside him in the shield wall?”

“Must a man fight to prove his worth? I do not carry a sword. Does that make me unworthy to speak to you?”

“No. Far from it. I have known many good men and women who do not carry swords. They work the earth in spring, reap the harvest in fall, and their labor feeds us through the winter. They brave the fickle seas to bring us fish. They cut wood to fuel our fires. They do honest work. Do you do honest work, Edvard?”

“I do as the Hammerling bids.”

Raef understood at last. “Because you want to rule Finngale after his death. Am I wrong?” Edvard’s face, wreathed in shadows as it was, had grown dark. “You are his son, his first-born, but born at the wrong time. And you watch him, your father, raise up his other sons, those boys, and you do what you think you must to raise yourself in his eyes.”

“What difference does it make to you, what I am?” Raef could hear the anger, the snarl in Edvard’s voice.

“It makes no difference. Except that I have stripped you of what dignity you have mustered, of the strength you hoped to show me. You might as well be standing there naked, such is the position you are in. And that makes all the difference. Now, tell me, what does the Hammerling have to say?”

Edvard was quiet and Raef could see him swallow back his pride and anger. “He wishes to come to an understanding.”

“Not peace, then, but a truce. That we might fight Fengar together. And when Fengar is dead, we will go to war.”

“He did not say.”

“No, but that is what lies in his heart, Edvard. There is no other way.” Raef turned to Finnolf. “Give them the guest right. Then we will talk.”

Bread and ale were brought, and Raef retreated to Vakre’s side to wait while a pair of servants distributed the symbols of hospitality, the bond between host and guest, to Edvard and the nineteen other riders.

Raef took his share and held his cup in the air. “Drink with me and no harm will come to you while you are my guest.” Raef took a swallow. “You,” he said, looking to Edvard, “you and I will speak more.” He began to turn back toward the gate at the same moment that some of those that followed Edvard stepped into the torchlight. A single face seemed to leap out of the shadows. Raef froze, his heart pounding, hammering in his chest.

“Murderer!” he shouted, his hand going to his sword.

Hauk of Ruderk did not shrink away from the light that had revealed him, but looked at Raef with steady eyes.

“I am your death!” Raef screamed, his voice hoarse with fury. He drew his sword but Vakre put a heavy hand on his arm.

“No, Raef, you cannot.”

Raef shrugged him off, but Vakre grabbed on and held him back. Uhtred came forward and did the same. “He is responsible for my father’s death. I will have his blood.” Raef lurched forward half a step and saw Eira step out from behind Hauk. He heard a roar of anger and knew it was his own.

“You gave him the guest right, Raef. I will not let you violate the thing that is most sacred to the gods,” Vakre said.

“The gods can rot,” Raef shouted, trembling with anger, straining still against the arms that held him. “Do you deny what you have done?”

Hauk of Ruderk shook his head, the calm in his face infuriating Raef further. “I am what you say I am, Raef, son of Einarr.”

Raef lunged forward, but still he was held back. “Do not speak his name!”

Vakre’s eyes loomed close and Raef could feel heat coming off the son of Loki. There were flames in his eyes, and they did not reflect the torches. “I will not let you stain yourself for him. You will kill him, and you will keep your honor. But not this night.” Beyond Vakre’s face, Raef could see Hauk of Ruderk looking on, a satisfied smile on his face. Eira’s features were impassive. “Trust me, Raef. You must trust me.”

Raef’s heart screamed for vengeance and death, though his mind knew Vakre spoke the truth. He hesitated, and then a shout broke through the night air and chaos reigned.

The attackers came from the north and the shadow of the wall, swift riders on horseback, steel flashing in firelight. Men were dying. His men. Raef ducked and rolled away from a blow aimed at his head. His sword arced out and caught the horse’s back legs, sending the animal tumbling over its own neck. The rider flew out of the saddle and Raef descended on him with a savage swing that split open his chest. He whirled, drawing out his axe, unsure where the next attack would come from, and saw Edvard, fear on his face, scramble onto his horse. The other Hammerling men did the same, though one was pierced with an arrow that sailed out of the night and took him in the throat. Hauk of Ruderk caught Raef’s gaze and then he was gone, urging his horse away, Eira close behind.

But there was no chance for pursuit. Raef’s warriors were besieged on both sides, caught between a press of men and horses. Only Uhtred, Vakre, and Raef were free from it. The screaming continued, and Raef, to his horror, saw smoke rising over the walls and knew that his people were dying. He scanned the wall for Siv but had no time, for a warrior was on him. Raef deflected the slicing sword, spun, and hacked upward into the man’s ribs with his axe.

“Isolf,” Raef shouted, for he had seen his cousin by the gate. Isolf, his face bright in the light of the torches, did not move, and his ten warriors beside him might as well have been stones. “Isolf!” Raef was screaming now. He lashed out with his sword at the closest attacker and finished him off with his axe. “You swore!” Through the smoke of the torches, Raef saw Isolf smile and give a command to the ten men beside him. They entered the fray, and Raef did not need to watch to know that his men were their targets.

Finnolf staggered out of the battle, his face spattered with blood. He screamed for Raef to get to safety, but there was no safety. The gates were closed now, and barred by Isolf. Another figure joined him and Raef recognized Tulkis Greyshield. His limp was gone and his face burned with satisfaction. Fires raged inside the walls. No doubt his warriors within were being slaughtered, if they were not dead already, caught by surprise and struck down by men whose faces they knew, the Silfravall warriors, betraying their unsuspecting hosts.

Rage burned across Raef’s skin and he advanced, eager to put himself in the thick of the fight, but then Finnolf was at his side.

The young captain could barely stand, but his words were clear. “We can fight another day, lord. They are too many. Our king must live. Get out of here.” Raef pushed him aside but then he saw Vakre fall to the snow, a knife slipping from his gut. Raef burst past Finnolf cleaved his axe into Vakre’s attacker, but the son of Loki was not getting to his feet. Raef knelt, his eyes locked on Vakre’s, whose face was contorted with pain, and then Uhtred was there, a horse in hand.

“Go,” Uhtred shouted. “We will be right behind you.” Raef mounted, still searching in vain for a sign of Siv. Isolf, seeing Uhtred urge Raef to escape, was advancing now, Greyshield a step behind. Uhtred lifted Vakre onto Raef’s lap and with a slap, sent the horse out into the darkness. The lord of Garhold squared his shoulders and turned back to meet Isolf.

They hit the trees before Raef realized he was gone. He yanked the horse to a halt and slid from the saddle, taking Vakre to the ground with him. Raef lurched to his feet and looked back at his home in flames. The battle was over and Isolf stood the victor. The bodies of Raef’s men were scattered before the gate and Uhtred and Finnolf were on their knees. Tulkis Greyshield was holding Finnolf by the hair and Isolf had his sword pointed at Uhtred’s heart.

Vakre moaned and Raef went to his knees at his friend’s side and pressed his hands to the wound, trying to stem the flow of blood.

“I know you are out there, Skallagrim,” Isolf shouted. “I will find you and my sword will send you to your death.” With horror growing in his heart, Raef watched Aelinvor step close to Isolf and even at that distance he could see the triumph in her face. “But you are done,” Isolf went on. “Vannheim is mine.” He slid his sword into Uhtred’s chest. Without a sound, the lord of Garhold went limp and slumped forward as Tulkis drew a knife and sliced open Finnolf’s throat, then pushed the young captain into the snow.

Silence pounded in Raef’s ears. He could see Isolf talking, could see shouts of victory on the faces of those around him, could see the gates open to let Isolf in, could see Lingorm, the captain from Silfravall, clasp arms with Isolf. But all was soundless.

Vakre shuddered under Raef’s hands and Raef forced himself to look away as the gates closed behind Isolf and Greyshield, shutting him out. His hands were covered in Vakre’s blood. The son of Loki was pale and sweaty, his eyes half open, his chest heaving with ragged breaths.

The sound of a horse snorting reached Raef and he looked up, scanning the trees for an attack. But there was none. Instead, he saw Hauk of Ruderk and the rest of the Hammerling’s men. They lingered in the trees, less than a spear’s throw away, unaware of Raef’s presence, their eyes on the gates. At last, Raef’s quarry was within killing distance.

And yet he could not go, could not leave Vakre, who would die without Raef’s hands stemming the flow of blood. Fury rose in Raef’s throat and he wanted to scream his anger to the gods, but he kept silent and hot tears of frustration burned in his eyes as he watched Hauk of Ruderk ride away, out of sight and out of reach.

Numb, Raef pressed his shin to the wound, to provide pressure in place of his hands. Using a knife, he cut away the bottom of his wool overshirt, wet and dirty as it was, and wrapped it around Vakre’s torso, cinching it with a tight knot. Then he sat back in the snow and stared across the narrow strip of open land that lay between him and the Vestrhall. It seemed to him a void, a great expanse, as wide as the sky above but without the stars to guide him. He should have died with Finnolf and Uhtred. He should have given his life for Vannheim. He should have stayed with Siv. Instead he lived, stripped of all that mattered.

Everything was lost. His vengeance. His home. Siv.