The Hills of Home (The Song of the Ash Tree Book 2) (24 page)

One by one the bodies were carried through the village and out the gates, then laid to rest in a heap, awaiting the flames. With the help of the villagers, Raef’s men worked through the night, felling trees, erecting five pyres, and dividing the bodies among them. Raef placed Gudrik’s body on one, and, as the sky began to lighten in the east, set the torch to the oil. The other four pyres were lit as one and the hot blazes brought a different kind of dawn to Vannheim. By then, even children had come to witness the funeral. The villagers, solemn faces reflecting the flames, stood in silence and Raef knew they were watching friends, brothers, and sons burn. Above it all, Snorren’s head sat atop a spear, his dead eyes rolled up, staring toward the breaking day.

Raef watched the fires burn until the smoke made his eyes sting, his clothes half frozen from the fjord, half dried by the heat of the pyre. But as he turned to the gates, intent on shutting himself in his chamber and drinking mead until he no longer saw Gudrik’s face, he saw movement to the east, horses breaking out of the trees and rounding a curve in the fjord’s shoreline, Vannheim’s banner streaming in the wind. They grew closer and Raef saw Finnolf Horsebreaker at their head and Dvalarr the Crow just behind.

Finnolf pulled his horse up hard in front of Raef, his eyes reflecting the fires and then looking up to the top of the gate to rest on Snorren’s head. Raef did not need to tell him what had happened. Finnolf jumped to the ground and took a knee at Raef’s feet.

“Lord, forgive me. They slipped through our noose and vanished. We rode through the night in the hopes of catching them.”

Raef felt anger bubble up inside him, though his mind told him Finnolf could not be blamed. “Did you think to look to the sea?”

Finnolf’s face fell and he closed his eyes. “Ships,” he said, almost to himself.

“We would all be dead if not for a stroke of luck.”

Finnolf lowered his head. “I have failed.”

Raef wanted to rage at the captain, but he bit back his words and turned away. It was only then that he saw Siv and Vakre, their faces two among the many that had returned with Finnolf. He slowed only a step, his relief at seeing them unharmed overwhelmed by his sudden anger at their disappearance and failure to bring Snorren down, then brushed past the onlookers and returned to his hall. He spent the day in solitude with only a cask of mead for company. Three times there was knocking on his door and three times Raef did not even give the disturbance a flicker of thought as he sat in his chamber before the empty hearth, ensconced behind the walls of his own mind.

Only at twilight did he emerge from the darkness of his chamber and allow Aldrif the healer to clean and stitch the wound in his thigh. When she had finished, he wiped the dried blood from his face and hands and left the hall without a word to any who saw him. In the village, Raef sought out an old woman who had lived in a tiny hut near the gate for as long as anyone could remember. She had a name but to every man, woman, and child in the village, she was simply known as Grandmother.

She was at home, as Raef expected, bent over a cooking pot, her white hair falling over her shoulder in a thin braid. For a moment, he thought of Siv, and wondered if her red-gold braid would look like this when she was old. Grandmother turned at Raef’s entrance, a ladle in her hand, and she blew on the soup and tasted it twice before acknowledging his presence.

“Best I ever made,” she said with a wink as she returned the ladle to the pot.

The smell of the soup cooking and the warmth of the fire seeped into Raef’s senses and he felt himself relax for the first time since listening to Gudrik tell the story of Eileif the night before. Exhaustion set in, taking the place of some of the anger that festered in him, and for a long moment, Raef was content to stand by her hearth and Grandmother let him do so as though having the lord of Vannheim staring into her fire were a nightly occurrence.

She hummed as she went about her business, the sound so light and faint that Raef could not pick up the tune, but the sound of her voice was welcome. Only when she had ladled soup into two bowls and poured ale for them both did she speak again.

“Eat. Before it gets cold.” Her face creased in a gentle smile and Raef did as she instructed. The first spoonful burned his tongue but it awoke his hunger and he began to eat with abandon, slurping and swallowing until his bowl was empty. She refilled it and by the time Raef had emptied it again, her own bowl was still half full. She smiled again. “And now you will wait,” she said, and Raef felt himself a child, admonished for eating too quickly and forced into patience as penitence. The thought brought a hint of a smile to his face, no doubt as she had intended, and Raef knew he had been right to seek her out.

When Grandmother finished, she set down her spoon with precision and drank the last sip of her ale. Then, folding her hands in front of her, she looked at Raef, her eyes still kind, but with new vigor in the blue depths. “Now,” she said, “what would you like?”

Raef inhaled and spoke. “Therein lies the problem, Grandmother. I do not know. And yet I feel I want to do this, to mark this day in some manner.”

She nodded. “Tell me, then, what your heart feels.”

Raef was unsure where to begin, but the words began to fall from his lips. “I am not the man I once was. That man was a warrior, a sea-farer, strong and skilled. He was a son, young and content with the world.”

“And what are you now?”

“I have tasted bitter sorrow and burning pain. I have a promise of vengeance in my bones. I have flown with the wind in my face and the sun in my heart. I have walked in barren Jötunheim and lived to tell of it. I have looked into the eyes of a Valkyrie and the Allfather himself has shown me the stars.”

She did not seem disconcerted by Raef’s revelations. “But what are you?”

Raef was quiet for a moment. “I am a named king. I am a lord. I am surrounded. And yet I am alone.”

The old woman smiled, but her gaze was lowered and the smile was for herself, it seemed. “I know what to do. But why now, young king? Why this day when you have never come to me before?”

“I lost a friend last night. Not the first, and likely not the last. His was a brave death, a sacrifice, and yet a senseless waste. He had words and music to make remembrances. I do not.”

She nodded. “Then let us begin.” They cleared the table and Raef watched as the old woman collected her tools. Then he stripped from the waist up. She ran a hand up his shoulder blade. “Here. So grief, joy, and memory are always looking over your shoulder.” Raef nodded and stretched out on the table, propping up his upper body on his elbows.

She went to work, wielding the ink and fine bone needles with precision, the gentle tune again murmuring through her lips. The work went on for hours. Raef drifted in and out of something akin to sleep, but always he was aware of the old woman’s tune and the tiny pricks of the needles into his skin. The dawn was approaching when she sat back and returned her tools to the table. Her thin, delicate hands were smeared with ink and she smiled to herself again.

“It is finished.”

Raef twisted his neck and peered over his shoulder to see what she had created. The wolf rendered into his skin, climbing up his shoulder blade as though readying to leap over his shoulder, was snarling back at him, and yet if he hunched his shoulder a different way, the ferocity was replaced by sorrow. It seemed a perfect reflection of himself.

“Thank you, Grandmother.”

She smiled, pleased with the work she had done. “It is time you slept.”

Raef cocked his head. “And you?”

“Sleep is for the young.”

Raef thanked her again and returned to the hall, the stillness of the sleeping village a welcome peace that Raef felt he could breathe in. When he reached his chamber, he sprawled on his bed, careful to keep off the fresh tattoo. Sleep overcame him in an instant.

TWENTY-TWO

W
he
n Raef awoke,
it was a slow extraction from the depths of sleep, the sunlight pulling, pulling at the edges of his eyes until at last he opened them. Even then Raef kept still, content to breathe. He knew now that the death of Gudrik had entwined in his heart with his father’s death. Raef remembered Einarr’s death as though he had been a watcher from afar. He had stood at the funeral pyre, he had done his duty as a son, but he had raced straight from shock to vengeance and never truly had a chance to grieve as the land erupted in war. But with Gudrik there had been no distance, it was all glittering sharpness and pain, dampened not at all by Raef’s swift retaliation against Snorren Thoken. But it seemed some of that sharpness and pain had been eaten by the wolf that now prowled Raef’s skin and it was with a clear mind that Raef rose from his bed.

The hour was late. Past mid-day. His chamber was cold, having been deprived of fire for two days and Raef padded across the floor to crouch before his hearth. A fire was born in moments, sending tongues of warmth snaking out to touch Raef’s skin. He had Aldrif change his bandage and inspect her stitches, then called for bread and meat, hard cheese and winter apples, and a fresh cup of ale, and ate on the small ledge outside his window.

It was from there that Raef saw the riders at the same moment the horn sounded at the gate to give notice. It was not Isolf. A banner, no more than a blur at that distance, was strung out at the front of the pack and Raef had not given Isolf a Vannheim banner to carry. It was a small party, though at that distance Raef could not count them. If foe, they could not threaten the walls. Raef thought of his letters to Axsellund and Bergoss, but it seemed too soon to hope it might be Torleif or Sverren with an answer.

Raef watched the riders draw closer and calmly finished his meal, washing down the last crumbs of bread with the ale. By then, the knocking had begun and Raef, still wrapped in his fur robe, went to the door.

It was Ulli, the steward. “Riders, lord.”

“I have seen them.”

“The gate insists it is the banner of Garhold.”

Raef kept his surprise to himself. “Whoever they are, keep them outside the gate. I will have no strangers pass these walls without my permission.” Ulli left to deliver Raef’s order and Raef looked once more out his window before dressing in clean clothes.

By the time he reached the gate, word had spread and a crowd of warriors and villagers had gathered. On Raef’s command, the gate was opened and Raef and ten heavily armed warriors stepped out.

The banner of Garhold, blue and white against the blue sky, flapped in the wind, but all else was still as the warriors faced each other. Raef recognized Uhtred at their head and the older lord dismounted and approached on foot.

“Not the warmest welcome I have known.” Uhtred’s voice was level and unthreatening but his blue eyes stared hard at Raef.

“I will decide the manner of my welcome when I know your purpose here.” Raef did not flinch away from the older lord’s gaze.

“Are you so quick to turn away a friend?”

“Friend, no. And if I had wanted to turn you away, you would know it. But is Uhtred, lord of Garhold, my friend?”

“He is, if you would let him.”

Raef felt his heartbeat quicken but the treachery of his own warriors had made him wary. “Then tell me the manner of your friendship.” It was perhaps too much to ask a lord to pledge himself before giving him welcome, before sharing mead, before letting him pass the gates. Uhtred was a proud man and Raef’s insistence on a demonstration of loyalty could chafe at him. But a true ally would swallow it and prove himself before all watching eyes.

The blue eyes did not flicker as Uhtred drew a small knife from his belt. The warriors behind Raef tensed, ready to defend their king, but Raef did not move and kept his eyes fixed on Uhtred’s, showing that he could trust if he chose.

Uhtred brought the knife to his palm and drew it across the skin. Blood rushed to the cut and Uhtred raised his hand so all might see. Then he went to one knee and shouted, “Hail, Skallagrim, king!” Uhtred was echoed by those who had ridden with him and then again by Raef’s warriors and the watching villagers. “Garhold is yours,” Uhtred said. “I swear it on the Allfather’s spear.”

Raef grasped Uhtred’s unbloodied hand and, with a wolfish grin, raised him up to his feet. “Then you are most welcome.”

“There is one I would have you meet,” Uhtred said, gesturing to the riders behind him. Raef nodded so he might continue. Uhtred turned and signaled and one rider, a young woman, dismounted and approached them. She was not dressed as a shieldmaiden, but her demeanor was commanding all the same. Her stride was confident and her eyes, the same piercing blue as Uhtred’s, were undaunted as she came to stand in front of Raef. She allowed Uhtred to take her hand, and there was no soft smile for either man, no meek downward glance.

“My daughter,” Uhtred said.

“Your name, lady?” Raef asked.

“Aelinvor.”

“You are welcome to Vannheim, Aelinvor.”

Uhtred’s daughter responded with a slight smile. It warmed her face without diminishing her boldness. “My king is kind.” Her dark, curly hair, long and unbound, swirled about her face in the wind.

At Uhtred’s signal, the remaining riders dismounted and one by one gave Raef their oath of loyalty, and there, before his gates, Raef gained his first ally.

The visitors from Garhold were given guest quarters in the Vestrhall and preparations began for a feast that night. To solidify their alliance in the sight of the gods, Raef and Uhtred shared a cup of mead and broke bread together, establishing the men of Garhold as guests in Raef’s home. As Raef passed the mead to Uhtred, he caught sight of Eira at the back of the hall. She had been absent since the night of the battle and Raef had begun to think he had driven her off. Their eyes met and she seemed calm but distant. He wondered why she had returned, why she kept returning. He could ask the same of Siv and Vakre, who he had thought long gone only to see them return from Finnolf’s failed journey to the south of Vannheim. He knew not whether he was angry that they had chosen to go with Finnolf or relieved that they had not yet abandoned him.

Uhtred had drained the rest of the mead and Raef turned his attention back to the other lord. “It is time we spoke away from the others,” Raef said. “You have spent many days in the saddle. Can you bear another hour?”

Uhtred grinned. “I am not so old as that.”

Five warriors went with them but kept their distance as Raef and Uhtred rode through the gate and curled around the north of the walls and the hill that stood at the Vestrhall’s back, then turning west to pass between the hills to reach the sea. Leaving the horses, they walked on the shore, watching the unrelenting waves batter the rocky coast. The salt spray leaped into the air, catching them in its fine mist.

“What brought you to my gates, Uhtred? Why align yourself with me?”

Uhtred was quiet for a moment. Gulls circling overhead tried to speak for him. “Your father might have been king, Raef. That day of the hunt in Balmoran, I was preparing to bind myself to him, to grant him the voices of Garhold’s warriors. He was a good man, strong, just, undaunted by lying tongues. Many things the last king promised to be and, we learned too late, did not deliver. Brynvald of Kolhaugen lived more years than most men and spent twenty of them as our king, but only because the lords were too busy fighting each other to bother with him. I watched your father navigate those feuds with skill and cunning, and through it all, Vannheim prospered, engaging in battle when necessary, letting lords tear at each other’s throats when it suited him. And I waited for the day that I could support him at a gathering and see him rise above all others.”

Uhtred looked out to sea and Raef knew the older lord was watching a future he had worked for slip away. “That day in the forest, I might have been able to save him.”

“Or you would have died at his side and not be standing here with me today,” Raef said. “Is it my father that brought you to me, then? And perhaps a nagging guilt?”

“I kept Garhold from the war because I would not support the manner of Fengar’s choosing. And yet what lord would I turn to in place of him? The Palesword I knew little and the Hammerling and I have never been friends. Should I make my own claim, then? But I have never craved power as some men do. Give me Garhold and I am content.”

“I have only ever said the same,” Raef said.

“Then I think you have the makings of a king, Raef Skallagrim. A man who seeks to be king with ravenous hunger is not the king we need. But I have not answered your question. A rumor came, on the heels of the news of the great battle in the east, a rumor that said it was not the Hammerling who had won victory over the Palesword, but rather it was the young lord of Vannheim who had triumphed against a terrible darkness. And then you vanished from the world of men, seemingly lost even as your star was born. Some said you were dead, betrayed by one of your captains. Some said you were the traitor, turning your back on the Hammerling and seeking Fengar instead that you might pledge Vannheim to him. But these rumors are nothing when compared to what I have heard of your absence and unexpected return.” Uhtred looked at Raef with a curious eye. Raef kept silent. “Perhaps one day you will tell me the truth. But it matters not for I am not blind. A strange fate guides you, Raef. I know not what it is, if it is darkness or light, if it will tear a hole in the world of men or return us to the golden age of heroes. But whatever it is, I have chosen to follow it. Too long has Garhold been idle, too long have I watched and waited in the shadows. No more.”

It was more honest an answer than Raef could ever have asked for, but Raef grew uneasy as Uhtred spoke of fate, the words of the Allfather burning in his mind. “And what would you have of me in return?”

“You are the last of the line of Skallagrim. My daughter is my only surviving child. I make no demands. I have already given you my spears and nothing you say will change that. I only ask that you consider tying our families and our lands together.”

Garhold and Vannheim shared only a small border at the edge of the sea but joining them together would create a tract of land larger than any claimed by another lord. Raef placed his hand on Uhtred’s shoulder. “You have my word, I will consider what you ask.”

They watched the frothing seas as clouds blew across the sun, the high winds driving the shadows unceasingly. Finally Uhtred broke the silence. “Whose head is above your gate?”

“A warrior who broke his oath. He was not the first. There has been trouble in Vannheim. Men sought to replace me in my absence. They have been dealt with, though I think they are not the last.” Raef looked hard at Uhtred, waiting to see if the other man might question his decision to support Raef now that he had the knowledge of unrest in Raef’s own land. Uhtred showed no such doubt.

“What would you have me do? My warriors await word from me.”

“And I await word from Axsellund and Bergoss. Send for two hundred of your men to meet us here, have the rest watch your borders and prepare to march.”

“It will be done.”

The lone rider was spotted coming down from the north as the sun flared over the sea that evening. Four warriors rode to meet him, wary of strange visitors, and Raef, alerted by a watcher on the wall, went to the gate to await their return, Finnolf a quiet but persistent presence at his side.

The horse was a farm beast, heavy-hoofed and shaggy, and the rider was slumped over its bare back, clinging to the horse’s mane with raw, wind-bitten fingers, his hair hiding his face. He wore only a thin shirt and his clothes were torn in several places.

“He has not spoken, lord,” said one of the four warriors.

“Get him down,” Raef said. The rider was lowered to the ground and stretched out on his back. Only then did Raef recognize him as Thorvin, one of the men he had sent to scout Greyshield. Bruises colored his face and his eyes were listless and unfocused. “Odin’s eye, get him inside.”

Finnolf unhooked his cloak and settled it over Thorvin, then he and another carried the unresponsive warrior through the gate and into the guard house. A fire blazed there and Thorvin was laid in front of it. In the light of the fire, Raef could see his skin was deathly pale and his breathing shallow. Blankets were fetched and hot broth made ready, but once they had wrapped Thorvin up, there was little they could do but wait.

Raef watched the man’s face for signs of renewed life. His eyes were closed now, the eyelids fluttering, but his cheeks were still cold to the touch. Too cold.

“He does not shiver,” Finnolf said quietly, voicing what each man was thinking. Shivering was a sign of life, a sign that the body was fighting the cold. A body that did not shiver was as good as dead.

Raef rose. A feast and his new ally awaited, though leaving Thorvin did not sit well with him. “Keep him warm. Do everything you can. And find me the moment something changes.” Finnolf nodded to show his understanding and Raef returned to the hall.