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

by T L Greylock

  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.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The stars turned overhead and still the smoke flourished above the village.

  Raef watched, waited, desperate to change the dark fate that had crept up behind him and settled over his home, unwilling to look away. Whether he waited for a sign of life or for Isolf to come for him and bring death, he could not say. The cold seeped into him, but he did not feel it. The wind whispered that he should flee while he had the chance, but he did not heed it.

  It was only when Vakre’s breathing, shallow and weak as it was, went silent that Raef tore his gaze from the walls around his home.

  “No, no,” Raef murmured, fighting the panic that rose in his throat, his hands hovering over Vakre’s chest. “Do not leave me here alone.” The silence dragged out and then at last Vakre’s ribcage rose once more and a shaky breath slipped out into the cold air. In his relief, Raef pressed his lips to Vakre’s forehead. “I must not let you die,” he whispered.

  With purpose steadying his heart and his mind, Raef got to his feet and went to the horse that had carried him from danger. The mare was unknown to him, ridden into battle by a traitor who wanted to drive the line of Skallagrim from the Vestrhall. But she was strong and clear-eyed, and Raef was grateful to find a blanket rolled behind the saddle. He pulled it free, then led the horse close to Vakre’s body, rubbing her nose as he went. “You must be sure-footed, friend,” he said. “The burden you will carry is all I have left in this world.”

  Raef knelt once more next to Vakre to check that his makeshift bandage held. It was poor but he had nothing better. He adjusted the knot and brushed sweat from Vakre’s forehead. “No way but forward now,” he said. “Just like Siv’s story of Lisgothmir.” Raef closed his eyes, remembering the remains of the burned ship on the beach. He knew now in his heart who had abandoned it. Opening his eyes, he lifted Vakre from the ground and managed to settle him onto the horse, then swiftly pulled himself up before Vakre could fall. He shifted Vakre’s weight until it rested against his chest, wrapped the blanket around Vakre’s torso, and took up the reins. “She was right. Isolf had to show his men that there was no going back, that they would take the Vestrhall or die trying.”

  Raef took one last look toward his home, wondering when he would see it again, then turned the mare east and urged her deeper into the trees. “You did not trust him,” Raef murmured, his mouth close to Vakre’s ear, “and I should have listened. Everything was a lie.”

  He was not without friends. Kolbrand, Finnolf’s father, would shelter him without a thought for his own safety and his home was not far. But thoughts of Kolbrand reminded Raef that Finnolf was dead, and Tolla and her sister, if they had not perished in the fires, were at Isolf’s mercy. He did not have the will to face their father.

  There was Axsellund. His new, untested ally. But the journey to Torleif’s hall was too far for Vakre and Isolf might think to look for him there.

  Others in Vannheim would gladly take him in. His childhood friends, the brothers Rufnir and Asbjork. Svanja’s aging father, Beomir. Countless warriors who had bled with his father and again with him, who were loyal to the name of Skallagrim. Josurr, bound now to Raef’s fortunes, would not hesitate. But Raef feared what Isolf might do to those he suspected of aiding Raef, even for one night. He would not risk it.

  There was one place he could go. One place Isolf would not know to look. There, he could gather fierce-hearted friends. There, Vakre would have time to heal. There, he could hone his fury and his sorrow into a weapon against Isolf’s betrayal.

  Raef glanced to the dark sky and the stars burning bright above the silhouettes of the trees.

  “Odin. Allfather. Give me time,” he whispered. “Darkness is com
ing, I know. But I must do this, not for myself, but for those who died for me this night. Before Fenrir comes for you, before the stars begin to fall and the sun and moon vanish, caught up in the jaws of wolves, I will bring death to Isolf Valbrand and I will take back what is mine.” The trees were still, the forest quiet. The very earth was listening. “And then I will go to the fate that awaits me, the fate even you cannot name, Allfather. I will go with a glad heart. Only give me time.”

  There was no answer, but Raef did not need one. He had only one way forward. Vakre shivered against his chest as the grey mare snorted out hot breath, and then the forest swallowed them into its heart.

  List of Characters

  Raef Skallagrim, lord of Vannheim

  Alfheim

  Aerath, troubled

  First Guardian

  Second Guardian, tricksy

  other Guardians: the kind one, the angry one, the strong one, and the forgettable one

  Finnoul, dreamer

  Ylloria, never smiles

  Annun

  Thannor

  Lorcan, sees much, despite missing an eye

  Jötunheim

  Mogthrasir, giant, not too clever

  Hrodvelgr, giant, much more clever

  Skjaldi, a dying, forgotten man

  Bara, giantess, one of the nine daughters of Aegir, a sea god

  Svanja, a memory

  Odin, Allfather

  Vannheim

  Eadilwif, a curious child

  Brunn, her father, a fisherman

  Sigrid, her mother

  Skarfi, Brunn’s brother

  Hollof, misplaced some sheep

  Isolf Valbrand, Raef’s cousin

  Aldrif, healer

  Fylkir, priest of Odin, cantankerous

  Josurr, priest of Odin

  Gudrik, skald, warrior, cripple, disheartened

  Tulkis Greyshield, clings to the past

  Rudrak Red-beard, a vulture

  Snorren Thoken, another vulture

  Finnolf Horsebreaker, captain

  Eira, Raef’s lover, a shieldmaiden

  Siv, a shieldmaiden

  Vakre Flamecloak, half god, son of Loki

  Beomir, Svanja’s father

  Dvalarr the Crow, kingmaker

  Hoyvik, smith at the Vestrhall

  Ulli, steward at the Vestrhall

  Yorkell, captain, sent in search of vultures

  Ergil Thrainson, a boy seeking vengeance

  Grandmother, an artist

  Uhtred, lord of Garhold

  Aelinvor, his daughter

  Lingorm, a captain of Silfravall

  Kolbrand, Finnolf’s father, breeder of horses and hunting dogs

  Tolla, Finnolf’s youngest sister, more horse than girl

  Hauk, lord of Ruderk

  Edvard, Brandulf Hammerling’s illegitimate son

  Off Stage

  Brandulf Hammerling, lord of Finngale, Raef’s former ally

  Fengar, lord of Solheim

  Tyrlaug of Innrivik, deceased grandfather to Isolf and Raef

  Brynvald of Kolhaugen, the last king, deceased

  Torleif, lord of Axsellund

  Sverren Redtail, lord of Bergoss

  Harbjorn, lord of Silfravall

  About the Author

  T L Greylock is the author of The Song of the Ash Tree trilogy, consisting of The Blood-Tainted Winter, The Hills of Home, and the forthcoming conclusion, Already Comes Darkness.

  She can only wink her left eye, jumped out of an airplane at 13,000 feet while strapped to a Navy SEAL, had a dog named Agamemnon and a cat named Odysseus, and has been swimming with stingrays in the Caribbean.

  P.S. One of the above statements is false. Can you guess which?

  www.tlgreylock.com

  @TLGreylock

  @tl_greylock

  Look out for the conclusion to The Song of the Ash Tree

  Already Comes Darkness

  ONE

  The hounds came with the sun.

  The day had dawned in shadow, the skies cluttered with writhing clouds, but at last the sun broke through following close on the breath of a stiff winter wind. The horse swiveled its ears, nostrils wide, at the first notes of the chorus, and Raef, cupped hands spilling the icy water before it reached his mouth, sprang to his feet. For a moment, he was as rooted as the bare oaks that towered above him as he sought to pinpoint their direction. The strong, eager voices of the hunters rose and fell on the air, and though at first they seemed to call from every corner of the world, Raef closed his eyes and soon knew they were yet behind. They had not flanked him. But it was only a matter of time.

  Raef looked to Vakre, who sat limp and listless in the saddle, his face pale and slick with sweat. His eyes were open, but the fevered gaze gave no sign that he heard the hounds. He would not survive a fight. Raef wrapped the reins in Vakre’s hands as securely as he could, then slapped his palm to the horse’s flank, sending the grey mare reeling through the trees and leaving Raef alone with only his thudding heart and the knowledge that he might have sent his friend away to die. Turning east, Raef began to run in a desperate attempt to lead the hunters away.

  His path was perilous and steep, the snow masking jagged spurs of rock, slick ground giving way beneath his boots. He sprinted when he could and crawled when he had to, but always he went up, and when he gashed his hand on a splintered tree trunk, he let the blood drip freely to mark his trail. The hounds would follow, but their progress would slow and the men that trailed after would have to abandon their horses and continue on foot.

  The voices of the pack rose and fell, and more than once they went silent for stretches of time that dragged on Raef’s nerves. But always they returned and he drew strength from the knowledge that it was his trail they followed, not Vakre’s. Raef forced himself to focus on his pace and each stride as he pushed onward while the bright winter sun slid across the sky. Sweat dripped from his nose and his lungs began to burn with each breath of cold air that he drew in. The swords, his and Vakre’s, banged against his legs, and his long cloak caught on the rough ground. He risked no glances behind, his mind bent only on moving forward.

  The sun was sinking behind him, spilling his shadow across the snow, when he broke through the tree line and emerged onto the open slopes of the high hills. Behind and below him, the fjord was a dark snake, stark against the snow-covered slopes, stretching west to the hall he had lost and the sea beyond. Ahead and above, the darkening sky loomed. If he could reach the stones before losing the sun to the sea, the dark cloak of night would be his ally. Raef pushed on, ignoring his protesting legs, and climbed a rocky outcrop to gain his first look at his pursuers.

  In the low light of dusk, there was little to see. All was grey and white and purple shadows, but, his skull thudding with rushing blood as he fought to slow his breathing, Raef picked out movement here and there. Two, three, six men. Perhaps more. As many dogs, though the swift-legged hounds were harder to spot even as the trees thinned around them. He could not fight them all. Taking a deep breath, Raef turned away and ran on, making his way toward a narrow spot between two peaks.

  The statues were silent sentries under a deep blue sky and the light of the first stars by the time he arrived at the saddle between the peaks and stumbled upon the ring of stones. In daylight, Raef knew, the faces would stare down at him with bleak stone eyes, carved by ancient, unknown hands. Now, in darkness, they were only black shapes blotting out the stars.

  The snow was thick here and Raef skirted the edge of the ring of statues until he stood between the eastern most pair, one, a woman who faced away from the rest, her gaze turned to await the rising sun, and the other, a stern man wielding an axe as tall as Raef. There Raef remained, letting the hunters come to him as the wind banished the last of the clouds, revealing the pale face of the moon.

  The dogs came first, bounding through the deep snow as they finished the ascent. The men lagged behind, but the moonlight did nothing to hide Raef and a voice, heav
y with ragged breaths, called the dogs off. The men slowed their pace and approached on foot, hungry eyes pinned on Raef. They were seven in number and sure of victory.

  “Did you really think we would not catch you, Skallagrim? We would not hunt you down?” One man led the rest and Raef’s heart burned with fury at the sight of him. “And this is how you have chosen to die. Here in the wild, a fugitive on the land your family ruled for more than five hundred years, without a friend to watch your back.” Tulkis Greyshield spat in the snow. “At last the Greyshields will reclaim their rightful place. My sons will carry on our name while yours turns to dust and is wiped from memory.”

  “You are wrong, Tulkis.” The arduous climb was but a distant memory, the exhaustion that had crept up on Raef for three sleepless nights was pushed away, forgotten. Raef put a hand on the hilt of his sword and felt the familiar anticipation of battle swell within him. This was blade-work, this was the steel song, and though the numbers called for his death, he knew he would not be the first to die.

  Greyshield let out a barking laugh. “About what?”

  “Everything. Your sons will die this night,” Raef said, nodding at the young, freshly-bearded warriors who flanked Tulkis, “and I am not without friends.”

  Two of the warriors behind Tulkis glanced beyond the circle of statues, wary now of every shadow.

  “Your friend? The one on the horse?” Greyshield’s smile burrowed into the knot in Raef’s stomach. “We have him, or will soon enough.” Raef said nothing and Tulkis, grinning still, gestured to the axe-wielding statue at Raef’s right. “Will he fight for you, Skallagrim? Will he strike us down with a single blow?”

  “Even now, Isolf is sitting in my father’s chair, Tulkis, tightening his grip on Vannheim. You will never have it.”