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

by T L Greylock

  “Vannheim or Garhold, it matters not.”

  Raef wanted to laugh. “If you think you will have Garhold, then you do not know Uhtred’s daughter.”

  “The lady Aelinvor will do as she is told.”

  Now Raef did laugh, a bitter, scornful sound. “She craves power and helped murder her father to grasp it. She will not bend to you.” Raef was glad to see a flicker of uncertainty in Greyshield’s eyes, but words would do nothing to alter the situation.

  “Kill him, father,” one of the sons said. Raef could see fear in this one’s eyes, fear masked by eager words.

  “No, father, let me drain his life’s blood.” The other son was shorter and smaller than his brother, but his eyes were alive with the promise of bloodshed.

  “Better yet, let me fight you both.” Raef spread his arms wide, inviting them in. “I will gut you as Finnvold Skallagrim did Thannulf Greyshield. You are boys still clinging to your mother’s skirts, so weak the Valkyries will never carry you to Valhalla.”

  The brothers moved together, snarling and cursing Raef and all his ancestors, swords drawn. They raced into the ring of statues and Raef let them come.

  Three strides later, they were screaming and the snow was bright with slick blood as the sons of Tulkis Greyshield impaled themselves on sharp stakes buried beneath the snow. The false cover of skins and branches broke and vanished, revealing the pit that stretched to the feet of the silent, stone onlookers.

  Tulkis was as still as the statues, his mouth gaping as he watched his sons die. One went quickly, for he had caught a stake in the throat, and his corpse sagged into the snow. The other, the second, younger son who had been so eager to kill, writhed still, legs jerking, blood coursing from his mouth and seeping out around the stake buried in his belly. His screams turned to shuddering moans of agony, but he lingered and the smell of urine reached Raef, but he had eyes only for Tulkis.

  The shock and horror frozen there thawed into rage and Tulkis’ roar of anger drowned out the cries of his dying son. “I will cut off your cock and feed it to the crows, Skallagrim. I will flay you and make you eat your own skin. You will sob for death before I am done with you.”

  Raef kept his voice even. “You spoke true, Tulkis. Here in the wild we are and I am alone. But the wild is mine.” Raef stepped behind the stony-faced woman who looked to the east and circled around to the north, every step taking him closer to Tulkis and the four warriors with him. He had hoped the pit might claim three, or even four, warriors, for now he was left with five men to fight, but seeing Tulkis watch his sons be ripped from him was worth it. He drew his sword in his left hand and the axe in his right, reveling in the calm their sharp edges brought to his mind.

  “Greet the corpse maidens for me, Greyshield. I will send you to Valhalla.”

  Tulkis charged and his first swing was full of power and wrath, meant to slash Raef open across the ribs. He jumped back, the steel passing by harmlessly, and countered with a lunge of his own that Tulkis only just deflected away, heaving his sword back around in time to keep Raef’s blade from burying itself in his gut, but the axe that followed was too quick and Tulkis could not prevent it from biting into his shoulder. Bellowing, Tulkis stumbled back, nearly falling in the deep snow, and Raef pressed on. The swords clashed again, Tulkis keeping his sword arm raised despite the fresh wound, but the snow claimed Greyshield’s balance and Raef’s next swing cleaved into his ribs, splitting flesh and splintering bone with ease. Tulkis dropped to his knees, his eyes staring, mouth hanging open, and he did not move, did not try to defend himself as Raef’s axe came to rest against his neck. Blood began to spill from his lips, streaking down his beard, but their eyes locked, hatred and fury blazing in Tulkis’ face. With a short, brutal chop, Raef hacked the axe into Tulkis’ neck and watched the eyes dull, the skin grow slack, and then Raef knew Greyshield was dead. Wrenching his weapons from the body, Raef let it fall backward so the dead eyes might stare at the stars. Only then did he face the four remaining warriors, his heart heaving with the battle-lust.

  Two were faces he knew, men who had fought with him at the burning lake. He focused on them.

  “So ends the line of Greyshield. Would you suffer the same fate, Olaf? Or you, Hakon? If you fight me now, I will kill you and hunt down your children and my blade will know the taste of their flesh. Is this what you want, to die a traitor, unremembered by the gods?”

  Olaf looked down to the snow as though he might find an answer or his courage buried there, but Hakon grimaced, his lips tugged sideways by an old scar, and Raef knew he would have to kill at least one more man that night.

  “I broke an oath once, lord,” Hakon said, “when I took mead from Greyshield’s hand and drank for him. I will not break another, even if it means my death.”

  “You would stand by a dead traitor?”

  Hakon shrugged. “It is all I have left, lord. What am I if I beg for my life now?”

  “Then draw your sword.”

  There was grit and determination in Hakon’s eyes, but also a measure of resignation. He was a strong man, and tall, but made for chopping trees and hauling loads, not battle. He had never been a skilled warrior, and Raef wondered what had tempted him to Greyshield’s side, but found he did not wish to ask.

  It was over quickly and Hakon fell not far from where the hounds crouched, whimpering now as the scent of the blood of men filled their nostrils. Olaf fell to his knees and begged Raef to spare him, or if not him, his wife and children. The other two warriors, unknown men from Silfravall, said nothing, though one fidgeted with his hands. He made a half-hearted attempt to draw his knife, but Raef hurled his axe and it sank deep into the man’s chest. He fell heavy and hard and did not move again. The other warrior paled and Raef could see the fight had left his eyes.

  “Go,” Raef said, weary now, but his voice still sharp with anger. “Run, run back to my traitorous cousin. Tell Isolf he will never be free of me.”

  Olaf and the other man turned their backs and fled, the hounds at their heels, and Raef watched them tread the snow-sea until they disappeared down the slope. Only then did he allow himself to expel a deep breath, and he sank against the closest statue, resting his head between his knees, his cloak pulled tight against the wind.

  The lone howl of a wolf jerked him awake. A quick glance at the moon told him he had not slept long, but it was not safe to linger. Rest could come when he was better sheltered. Raef hauled himself to his feet and walked to the edge of the pit that had claimed the sons of Greyshield. The bodies were stiff and cold and looked younger in death. With silent thanks to Odin, Allfather, Raef turned his back and began the descent, fixed now on finding Vakre, if the son of Loki lived.

  Grass Crown Press

  Copyright © 2016 T L Greylock

  Cover design by Damonza

  Map by Gillis Björk

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-9965366-3-9