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

by T L Greylock

  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.

  Hoyvik did not seem surprised to see Raef and he did not hurry to greet him. Hoyvik never hurried and Raef was content to wait, hovering just outside the heat of the forge until Hoyvik came to him.

  “A new sword, for a new king.” This was spoken without reverence or much emotion at all.

  Raef remembered the borrowed sword that had taken him from prisoner to the burning lake. He remembered the blow that had shattered it, the cruel eyes in the face of the Valkyrie who had wielded a sword of sunlight. Raef handed the smith the broken hilt of his old sword.

  “Use this, if you can.”

  The smith took the hilt and turned it between his fingers, nodding to himself. “Five days. No more.”

  Raef frowned, knowing the smith could not make a blade of quality and still do other work in that time. “But your other work.”

  “Five days, and hope I am not too late. I think soon you will have need of a good sword.”

  Raef could not deny this and he thanked the smith, promising double in payment. At this, Hoyvik shook his head.

  “The same payment as the last sword I made for your father, no more, no less. I will not have people call me greedy.”

  Raef agreed, then walked through the village, one more destination in mind before he returned to the hall.

  The house of Finnolf’s sister sat at the base of the gentle slope, close to the edge of the fjord and the docks where the timber walls protruded into the water. Her husband, a fisherman, was outside, so bent on his task of mending nets that he did not at first notice Raef watching him. When he did, he scrambled to his feet and stammered for words.

  “I understand you have given the hospitality of your home to a stranger called Gudrik,” Raef said.

  “We have, lord.”

  Raef smiled. “I am glad of it. You have my thanks. I wish to see him.”

  The interior of the house was warm and cheerful. Finnolf’s sister tended a pot over the fire but it was the figure resting in a corner, his nimble fingers carving a shaft of wood, who drew Raef’s gaze.

  “Gudrik.”

  The poet smiled and got to his feet. Raef could see he did it with difficulty and kept his weight off the healing leg. “I had heard of your safe return. The gods have smiled on you, Raef Skallagrim.”

  Raef smiled in return, but he could not agree. “Forgive me for not visiting sooner.” The smile drifted away. “I was not well.”

  “A king has more important things to do than visit a crippled poet.” It was said with ease but Raef could hear a hint of bitterness in Gudrik’s voice. With the aid of a crutch, Gudrik limped from the house. They walked to the water, and Gudrik settled onto a log that had washed up on the pebbled beach.

  “How is your leg?”

  “As you see it.” The bitterness was still there.

  “You have seen Aldrif?”

  “Yes. But far too much time had passed between the injury and when she got her hands on me. There was little she could do.” Gudrik tried to smile, but there was no truth in it.

  Raef realized he had hoped to find Gudrik in good spirits, had sought the poet’s calm nature to sooth his own troubled mind. To find Gudrik shadowed in melancholy was unexpected and Raef did not know how to make it right. “You will have a chamber in my hall, if you desire it. We need music, good music.”

  Gudrik was quiet, staring out across the fjord. “I will never stand in a shield wall again. I will never know the joy of victory, feel the tremor of battle fill my limbs, or wield a sword again. I will never shout the battle cry alongside my brothers and face death with a laughing heart.”

  “You have words and music, Gudrik. These are gifts given only to a few, granted by the Allfather himself.”

  Gudrik turned his head to look up at Raef, his eyes burdened with tears. “I was a warrior, Raef. It is not enough to sing the songs of ancient battles. I have lost a part of myself, lost the part that matters most.”

  “Gudrik, I always valued your mind more than your sword. One warrior is much like another. But one poet, who can weave words and draw the hearts of men into their throats, who can bring tears to the eyes of the gruffest warrior with a simple song, this poet is worth so much more.” Gudrik stared at the grey stones beneath his feet, unresponsive. “You are the bones of the land, Gudrik. You give life to our history. You keep the gods close to us. You bring p
eople together as no warrior, no matter how strong and skilled, can.” Raef held out his hand. “My hall awaits and I need you there.” After a long moment, Gudrik met Raef’s gaze, and though his eyes were troubled and full of guilt and longing, he took Raef’s hand and was pulled to his feet.

  Together they climbed to the Vestrhall and Raef instructed servants to show Gudrik to an empty chamber and fetch his few belongings from the house of Finnolf’s sister.

  “Rest, friend, and make this place your home,” Raef said, glad to see Gudrik muster a smile that reached his eyes. “Then join us this night.” Raef left Gudrik in the care of the servants and then sought out his father’s vacant chamber.

  It was as Einarr had left it. The heavy curtains hung askew, casting slanted shadows across the floor and the massive bed draped with furs. A pair of boots rested by a trunk, one standing upright, the other toppled as though it had been tossed to the floor in a hurry. Mud, dry and crusty now, stained the leather. A candle, stubby, well-used, sat on Einarr’s table, the drips of its last use long hardened on the wood. Raef picked at the wax until it loosened.

  There was dust, though not as much as Raef had expected. He blew a coating off the papers on his father’s table and it hung in the sunlight for a moment before drifting to the floorboards. The papers were dry and brittle under Raef’s touch so he looked with his eyes and used his hands only a little.

  The papers were mundane. Lists of goods traded, inventories of the hall’s warehouses and valuables, receipts of coin spent and gained. Raef searched a small wooden chest filled to the brim but found only more of the same. Sighing, Raef sat in his father’s chair and massaged his fingers against his temples. He had hoped for something that might point to a conspiracy against his father, whether a direct threat or a warning from a third party. If Einarr had received any such correspondence in the days before they traveled to Balmoran for the gathering, he had destroyed it.

  Raef sat in the half-lit chamber for a long moment, plucking idly at a cushion until he had extracted a downy white feather from the stuffing. He ran one finger along the feather’s edge, then blew it across the room and watched it drift to the furs that covered the bed. He closed his eyes, acutely aware that this chamber and the sword in the armory were the last things of his father left to him. Raef inhaled but there was nothing, not the scent of good, worn leather, not stale ale, not a hint of beeswax soap, or anything else Raef remembered lingering about his father. He felt tears prick at the back of his eyeballs, itching to spring forth, and for a moment his vision grew watery. But not a single salty tear fell and the indulgence in self-pity passed. It would do no good wishing a king’s burden had fallen on his father’s shoulders instead of his own. Tears would not alter the past.

  Raef sealed his hurt inside his father’s chamber and sought out the hall’s steward, finding him deep inside one of the underground storehouses, on his tiptoes on a rickety stool, counting withered winter apples. He started at Raef’s appearance, knocking his head against a hanging side of beef.

  “Lord, have you come for a report?” His inky fingers reached for his scroll even as he lost his footing on the stool. Raef caught him by the sleeve and steadied him.

  “No, Ulli, I am sure the numbers are in order. I come on other business. I owe a debt to a fisherman and it is time I paid it.” Raef ordered three fine pigs and a strong horse to be sent to the small house near the seashore where Brunn and Sigrid had given him life. “Send them at once by cart. I want two warriors to accompany the driver. Under no circumstances are the pigs to be left with anyone but Brunn,” Raef added, his thoughts straying to Skarfi, Brunn’s vindictive brother. Ulli took the order and the directions to Brunn’s home without blinking, but before he scurried off to find a man to drive the cart, Raef stopped him, a question half-formed on his tongue. “My cousin, when he arrived, what was he like?”

  “Courteous, lord, in every way. Respectful. They fed themselves from the forest and the fjord, making no claim to our winter stores. There were no demands, no threats.” Guilt flashed across the steward’s face. “When some of us began to lose hope, it was your cousin who insisted you were yet alive and gave us the will to believe.”

  “And when word came that Rudrak Red-beard and Snorren Thoken were of a mind to take the Vestrhall?”

  The little steward’s face was very grave. “Even then he spoke only of keeping Vannheim safe for you.”

  Raef nodded, glad he had asked. “Thank you, Ulli.”

  Raef returned to the hall. The vestiges of the previous night’s kingmaking revelry were being scrubbed from the floor but a stale smell still hung in the air. Raef watched the servants go about their business, heads bent, only quiet murmurs passing between them. He ordered the doors be kept open to freshen the air and a large fire was soon blazing in the first of two fire pits in the floor, both to keep the hall from growing too cold and in hopes that the smoke might drive away the unpleasant odors. Raef lingered at the high seat, the chair his father had occupied with such ease. He had yet to sit in it, choosing instead among the stools and benches even during the kingmaking, and he traced his fingers over the carved wood. The chair was decorated with many scenes of old, all telling the first days of Vannheim’s history. It was a bloody history and Raef knew the stories well.

  His fingers had just found a particularly gruesome depiction of brothers mauling each other to a grisly ruin when Isolf appeared at his shoulder.

  “This chair was born in blood,” Raef said.

  “As are kings.”

  “This story,” Raef tapped the wood with one finger, “one of the more violent ones, which is saying something.” He bent down behind the chair and gestured for Isolf to do the same. “Here,” Raef pointed to one of the brothers, “Ulflaug has set his brother’s hair on fire. Kell-thor responds by chopping Ulflaug’s balls off.”

  “I would say Kell-thor got the better end of it.”

  “Perhaps. Unless you knew that in the end Kell-thor was murdered by his nephew who was in truth his own son. The boy knew nothing of his parentage but Kell-thor,” Raef looked at the carving of the wild-haired warrior drowning in his own blood as a boy looked on in triumph, “Kell-thor knew.” Raef rose and bit back a grimace of pain. His knee ached. “The mother killed herself for grief. The boy is remembered for nothing but wielding the blade that slew his father.”

  Isolf seemed unperturbed by the glum story. “And yet he endures, carved into a chair that will seat a king. That is something, is it not?”

  Perhaps it was, perhaps not. Raef no longer wished to dwell on the brothers Kell-thor and Ulflaug.

  EIGHTEEN

  For four days Raef received warriors in his hall. Men, fresh from the battles in Gornhald and Solheim, were eager to show themselves to their new king and pledged their oaths with solemn words and faces. One by one they knelt before Raef and he acknowledged them with his thanks and gave them promises of renown. The village and the Vestrhall were overflowing but the warriors kept coming, making camp outside the walls despite the cold and snow. It was an encouraging sight, those makeshift shelters, fires dotting the land at night, horses gathered in a circle against the wind. Each night, a portion of the warriors were feasted in Raef’s hall and each morning, he sent most of them home again to await further word. He kept some of those with horses outside the walls as deterrence against an attack from Red-beard or Thoken.

  As the numbers grew, Raef sent Finnolf and another captain, Yorkell, to scout further afield so that they might know where the traitorous warriors gathered. One went north, the other south, with strict orders to engage only if necessary, and with numbers great enough to discourage an ambush. And so Raef waited, Isolf and Gudrik at his side, Vakre and Siv nowhere to be found, as the warriors of Vannheim, young and old, man and woman, brought him their spears.

  Not all came. There were absences Raef could not help but notice, men he had thought loyal to his father. He said as much to Isolf, but his cousin did not seem concerned.

 
“They will see the error of their ways when we rout Red-beard and Thoken in battle. And they will crawl back to you and beg to join your shield wall.”

  Raef was not convinced. The men he looked for were battle-hardened and not likely to crawl or beg.

  It was twilight on the fourth day when Raef received a final group of warriors who had made the last push to the hall before night fell. They were weary but no less proud and each received a cup of ale and a place by the fires. As the men fell away, eager to eat and drink, a single boy, slight and skinny-armed, remained in the center, unnoticed in the crowd but now alone and exposed. The boy kept his gaze down, his arms straight at his sides.

  “Your name, boy?” Raef’s voice carried over the murmurs of the warriors and all eyes turned to middle of the hall.

  The boy looked up but did not yet meet Raef’s stare. He swallowed. “Ergil.”

  Raef smiled a little. Nerves had stilled the boy’s tongue and he not given his father’s name. “Come closer, Ergil.” The boy did as he was told and Raef could see that his hair, shorn at the back of his head but longer at the front, was damp with sweat. He stopped perhaps five paces from the base of the stairs leading to Raef’s chair and the high table.

  Isolf stepped forward, his orange hair wild, his gaze fierce. The boy seemed to shrink within his skin. “What brings you before the king?”

  “I wish,” Ergil began, his voice so quiet Raef had to strain to hear him, “to give my oath.”

  “How old are you, Ergil?” Raef asked.

  The boy’s chin came up just a hair, a shred of defiance working its way to the surface. “Fifteen.”

  He was older than he looked, then, for Raef had thought him scarcely more than twelve. Either that or he lied.