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

by T L Greylock

  They walked the length of Brunn’s house three times before Raef begged for mercy. He felt as though he had climbed a mountain, his legs crying out, sweat beads trickling down his chest, and blood pulsing in his ears. Brunn let him rest, offering water and broth Sigrid had left over the hearth, but making it clear that they would resume after he returned from checking on the pigs.

  Raef leaned back into the straw and let his mind drift as clouds passed over the window, bringing the house in and out of shadow. The sound of a horse drew his attention and he opened his eyes when a second horse called out in answer. A voice, angry and harsh. Another chiming in. And then Brunn’s. Raef could not make out words but the voices grew more heated and then the door banged open and Skarfi filled the doorway, blocking the sun.

  “You, get up.” He pounced on Raef and dragged him to his feet as a second man followed. “Three nights ago, thieves tried to make off with Hollof’s sheep. Two escaped, and the third as well, but not before Hollof’s dog got hold of him.” Skarfi shook Raef and snarled, his red-rimmed eyes taking in Raef’s bruises, the fresh wound on his palm, and the mark Hrodvelgr’s creature’s tooth had carved into Raef’s arm. “That was you.”

  Brunn, protesting, stepped close but the other man, Hollof, punched him in the gut. Brunn doubled over, unable to speak. Skarfi shoved Raef against the wall and held him there, his forearm cutting into Raef’s throat.

  “Has the right look,” Hollof said, peering at Raef with pale blue eyes. “Needs a good gutting.” He spat and Raef flinched as the phlegm landed on his cheek. Skarfi’s thick forearm bore down harder and Hollof drew a knife from his belt and held it to Raef’s ear. Raef struggled for air, his hands reaching out to Skarfi’s shoulders but pawing uselessly, as a weak animal might at the end of a hunt. He was prepared to give up his name, if it would stay their wrath, but he was unable to do more than grunt. The anger in their eyes, the glee at having prey at their disposal, shone bright and Raef did not think the name of Skallagrim would give them pause while their blood was up.

  Beyond Hollof’s shoulder, Brunn had risen, his face stricken but a crude hammer in hand. A single swing sent Hollof to the floor, blood sprouting from his temple, and Skarfi’s grip on Raef slipped enough for Raef to duck and limp away. The brothers squared off, Skarfi all rage and brute strength, a knife flashing from his belt, Brunn less certain but the hammer held in a firm grip.

  “You will not spill blood in my house, brother,” Brunn said.

  Skarfi bellowed in rage and lunged. Brunn sidestepped but Raef could see he did not have the training to win a fight against a bigger, stronger opponent. Skarfi circled again and Raef, his left leg a knot of agony, scanned the room for a weapon. Lurching to the table, he grasped a short, stubby knife.

  “Stop this madness,” Raef shouted, his voice raspy from Skarfi’s hold. “The lord of Vannheim commands it.” It was Brunn who looked at Raef, who dropped his guard, and Skarfi, whether deaf to Raef’s words or choosing to ignore them, took his chance. He tackled Brunn to the ground, sending the hammer spinning across the floorboards. The smaller brother stood no chance against Skarfi’s bulk and Raef tried to go to his aid, but Hollof, recovered, if woozy, beat him there and placed himself between Raef and the brothers sprawled on the floor. Hollof blinked away blood that trickled close to his eye and his gaze was unsteady, but the blade in his hand did not quiver and Raef knew his depleted strength and crippled leg made a fight foolish.

  For a moment, there was silence but for the heavy breaths of each man. And then Hollof spoke.

  “The lord of Vannheim, he says.” A limp grin spread across Hollof’s wide face. “I begin to think we should let you live.”

  Skarfi grunted from the floor. “Finish him.”

  “He may be worth more alive than dead, lord or not,” Hollof said. “They will pay good coin for him.”

  Skarfi rolled off his brother but did not let Brunn rise. “And if not?”

  “Then we can kill him later.”

  Skarfi got to his feet and advanced on Raef. Brunn rose and made to follow but Raef held up a hand to keep him from coming closer.

  “Will you come without a fuss?” Hollof leered at Raef.

  “If you leave this man alone.”

  Skarfi scoffed. “Not worth the trouble, my brother. Never did have any ambition.”

  Raef looked from one man to the other, wondering if they would keep their word, but he knew he did not have any choice but to hope they would. He would not risk further harm to Brunn or his family and home. Raef limped to the table, trying in vain to keep upright and show himself to be stronger than he felt. The effort failed and his leg gave out after two steps, sending him careening into the table. Steadying himself to the sound of Hollof and Skarfi’s laughter, Raef set the small knife on the table and caught Brunn’s gaze. He tried to convey a great many things in that shared look, but most of all his gratitude.

  “My fate is my own,” Raef murmured, his mind on the words the Allfather had spoken. Raef turned to Skarfi and spread his hands. “I am yours. But if we must travel far, I will need a horse.”

  Skarfi scowled. “You will walk.”

  “Then the sun will set on us here. You have seen me fall after two steps. If you wish to travel, my legs cannot be trusted.”

  “Use mine,” Brunn said. He did not meet his brother’s gaze, but looked instead to Raef, who gave him a nod.

  Brunn’s horse was a shaggy-hoofed creature, big and strong for working the land. There was no saddle but Raef twined his fingers in the horse’s black mane and pulled himself up, glad of the freedom of movement the horse could grant him and the muscles, rippling under a thick winter coat, that would carry him with ease. With only one horse between Skarfi and Hollof, they agreed to take turns riding. Skarfi, his fingers red from the cold, tied the horses together, then they set off, heading north and into the hills. Hollof led the way, his mount breaking the snow, Skarfi following on foot in his tracks, one hand on the rope, Raef bringing up the rear. Raef looked back at the small house on the edge of the fjord. He knew not what the day held for him, but better that than bring danger to Brunn’s home. At least now Skarfi and Hollof would be far away when Sigrid and Eadilwif returned.

  They rode in silence while the day passed out of its youth. The sun was bright, its light only broken by puffy clouds that skimmed across the sky. Snow crunched under the horses’ hooves and Raef drank in the fresh air, even though it was cold and biting, sneaking its way under his borrowed cloak and the woolen layers Brunn had insisted Raef accept. When they paused to ford a stream, Raef ventured to speak.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  Skarfi and Hollof glanced at each other and neither spoke.

  “Who do you think is going to pay you?”

  Again there was no answer and Raef, urging his horse up the bank, decided to save his breath.

  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 t
hat 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.