Black Monastery Page 10

  It was all he had left.

  Most of the men stood some distance away, watching him with dark expressions. Asgrim sighed. There would be trouble over this. They would curse his foul luck, curse this damned raid, and curse him. Harald Skull-Splitter stood among a knot of men and glared at him. Asgrim stared back until the other man hawked, spit on the ground, and turned away.

  Definitely trouble.

  He grabbed the reins of his horse and climbed into the saddle. Once they were away from this place, the men would regain their cheer. He would find another settlement to raid, someplace that actually had something to steal. He told himself everything would be fine, all the while knowing it wouldn’t.

  What kind of a man kills his own brother? The three crones had to be giggling with glee.

  Asgrim led his men away from his brother’s pyre. The happy chatter among the men had disappeared. Asgrim could feel their stares on his back. He looked up at the red dragon, now almost completely gone from the sky. Bjorn had been so wrong about it. Odin and Thor weren’t here and had never been watching over them. He prayed Bjorn was in Valhalla, that the Valkyries had somehow managed to find him, even in the land of the Franks and their bizarre one god and black monks.

  His thoughts swirled in his head as they marched to the sea. The sea—escape from this cursed island. Soon, he heard waves crashing against the beach and knew they were almost back at the longship and freedom. The men picked up the pace, anxious to be gone, but when he heard the pounding of horses’ hooves to their front and saw the two scouts with grim faces riding out of the trees, he knew something else had gone very wrong. His hands clenched into fists, and he forced himself to take deep breaths.

  What had the crones woven for him now?

  The scouts pulled up on their reins; their horses danced in place, eyes wild with terror. The two riders looked much the same.

  “They’re dead,” said one of the men.

  Asgrim exhaled, feeling his world crash in upon him. “The longship?”

  The other scout shook his head and opened his mouth, but then closed it again.

  The men began to yell out questions and push forward. With a sharp yell, Asgrim lashed his horse into a run, darting between the two scouts.

  He broke through the screen of trees, coming out on the beach, and stared in disbelief at Sea Eel. The vessel had been dragged up all the way onto the sand and sat there, leaning over on its side. Its mast had been broken off at the base and was now impaled through the hull.

  How was that possible?

  Asgrim almost fell while climbing down from his mount. His legs trembled as he approached his prized vessel, noticing for the first time the low droning of the flies and the stench of rot. Lying before him on the sand, mocking him, were the corpses of the five men he had left behind.

  Someone had carefully laid them out together, one beside the other, their arms linked around the neck of the man on either side, as if they were the greatest of friends and had reposed for a nap together. The horror on their dead faces, however, betrayed that lie. And this charade was only the beginning of the abuse heaped upon the dead. Someone had skinned the men, leaving their heads still intact but their bodies nothing more than empty husks of skin, deflated and obscene. Asgrim remembered the skinned monk Gorm had found within the monastery and trembled in rage, barely believing what he was seeing. It seemed impossible, a cruel joke. From where Asgrim stood, the empty husks of these men looked intact, like deflated wineskins. But when he turned them over and looked beneath, he found the gaping hole in their backs where everything had been scraped out. The discarded remains lay only paces away in a stinking, glistening pile of bones, guts, muscle, and internal organs, crawling with a skin of flies. A cold sweat drenched Asgrim’s skin.

  Who could do such a thing? Why?

  He heard the sudden pounding of hooves, then turned to watch his horse galloping away down the beach. Even Hopp whined, hiding behind his legs.

  Gorm and the rest of the men followed him out onto the beach. At first, not a man said a word. Each just stared in horror at the sight before him. Then several vomited, and not just the young ones. Others called upon the mercy of the gods. Still more bellowed in outrage, stomping up and down the beach, trying to vent their fury.

  Far too many glared at Asgrim.

  Several moments passed before he noticed Gorm standing beside him. The two men considered the mast shoved through the hull of Sea Eel.

  “What do we do?” Gorm asked.

  “What choice do we have?” Asgrim said. “We fix her, then sail away.”

  Gorm reached out and ran his fingers over the broken edge of one of the planks. “It will take days, maybe weeks.”

  “Maybe,” said Asgrim.

  “The Franks. They’ll come in force.”

  Asgrim nodded. “Aye. So first, we build a log wall around her. Once we have a wall to fight behind, we hold fast and fix her. If the Franks come against us, we kill them until they stop coming. Once Sea Eel’s seaworthy again, we go.”

  Gorm snorted. “That seems simple enough.”

  Ignoring the sarcasm, Asgrim replied, “No, it won’t be, but it’s our only option.”

  Asgrim heard a commotion behind him. He turned to find the men gathering nearby, arguing with one another, their voices getting louder. There seemed to be two groups of men forming, one far larger than the other. The larger group had Harald at its core, with all of the younger men. The second, much smaller group, comprised the steadiest of the old hands, men like Steiner and Snorri. Asgrim approached the men just in time to hear Harald speaking.

  “Can’t let ’em get away with this, with killing our friends.” Harald looked about himself as he spoke, clearly talking for the benefit of the forming mob.

  “We follow the captain’s orders, not yours, Skull-Splitter. No one swore an oath to you,” Steiner answered, his voice much lower and calmer, his eyes thin slits.

  There’s going to be blood, Asgrim thought.

  Steiner’s posture was that of a man ready to fight. His hands edged near his knife, and his feet were set for balance and action. Harald, on the other hand, seemed too preoccupied with the attention that the others were paying him to react to what was about to happen.

  Steiner was a thin man, nowhere near the size of Harald, but anyone who underestimated him was taking his life in his own hands. The warrior was one of the hardest men Asgrim had ever sailed with. Not only could he track a mouse for days across fresh snow, but he could also put an arrow into the creature’s anus from two hundred paces away. As well, he was a particularly nasty hand with a knife. If Harald was too poor a judge of men to see that Steiner was moments away from violence, then the young blowhard would never command his own men, at least not for long. A good captain understood men.

  Asgrim pushed himself between the two men, interrupting their argument. “What’s this nonsense, then?” He looked about himself at the gathering men, willing steel into his face.

  Red-faced, Harald glared at Asgrim. “Fucking villagers have murdered our mates, and we want blood.” Harald paused for a moment before adding, “Captain.”

  “Villagers?” Asgrim let his face and voice show his disdain and incredulity. He shook his head and turned, letting his gaze fall across all of the men. “Is this what you think, that villagers did this? That snot-nosed Frankish farmers captured five warriors and then had the skill and time to spare to skin them?” He paused, and some of the men looked down, to stare at their feet.

  Hopp moved up just past Asgrim, bared his fangs, and growled. Several of the men stepped back. Others—including Harald—didn’t.

  “Villagers didn’t do this,” said Asgrim. “There’s no gods-damned way, and you men know this to be true. This wasn’t peasants. This was the same horror that killed the monks, the same spirit that possessed my brother.”

  “No,” someone muttered. “Those bastards did it, all right.”

  Others shook their heads in denial. Harald finally seemed
to grasp the danger he was in, or perhaps he just didn’t want to take on Asgrim, because he looked about himself and stepped back, letting others talk.

  “We should kill a bunch of them, just in case,” said Ham. “It’ll show them not to mess with killers like us.”

  Asgrim cocked his head and glared at the young man. “We should, should we? And how many battles have you been in, you pimple-faced git?”

  The young man’s face blanched, and he shut up, disappearing back into the throng, muttering beneath his breath.

  Asgrim jabbed a finger at the corpses. “I’ve killed more men than I can count, and I tell you this: men don’t do things like this.”

  They stared at the gutted corpses in silence.

  “Captain’s right,” yelled Gorm, who now stood beside Asgrim. “There’s evil here, but the captain’ll bring us out of it, take us home.”

  “We can fix Sea Eel,” said Asgrim. “It’ll take time, and we may have to kill some Franks whether we want to or not, but we can do this. We are the wolves of the northern seas. Nothing is beyond us.”

  Some of the men stared at the ground, uncertainty on their faces. Others, though, still glared in rage. One of them, a normally good-natured young man named Hæfnir, stepped forward and spat on the ground near Asgrim’s feet. “This is your fault, kinslayer.”

  Gorm kicked him in the balls, and he dropped like an anchor. Several of the men stepped back, but others pushed forward, tensing.

  “Enough!” yelled Asgrim. “We don’t have time for this. We have work to do if you ever want to go home again. But first, we build another fire and send our friends on to Valhalla.”

  “Listen to him, you fucking idiots.” Gorm grabbed the closest man by the shoulders, spun him about, and shoved him toward the forest. “Go gather some fucking wood, or I will beat you all to fucking death right fucking now!”

  Some of the men turned and stalked off, but others stayed in place, still glaring. Asgrim’s hand drifted over the head of his hand ax on his belt. Heart-Ripper hung from its sheath on his back, beneath his shield. If it came to violence, he could draw the hand ax first, with barely a thought.

  And then the moment of danger was gone. As more men drifted away, following orders, the others lost their courage. Those who remained cast nervous glances at Asgrim and Gorm, then at each other. And just like that, they all began to stalk off, some still muttering curses and shaking their heads. The last two picked up Hæfnir and led him away.

  “And somebody get out on sentry right gods-damned now!” Asgrim yelled at their backs. “Before the Franks come on us for real.”

  Asgrim sighed and wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers. That had been a near thing. And the problem wasn’t going away anytime soon. Mutiny was like rot; once it started, it needed constant checking and scouring.

  They needed to get away from here, soon, and to get out to sea again. He stared into the trees. But something out there didn’t want them to go.

  Seven

  The Island of Noirmoutier,

  August 3, 799,

  Afternoon

  Steiner Ghost-Foot leaned against the trunk of a tree, watching the path he and the other raiders had taken from the fort to the shoreline. Asgrim had demanded a sentry position, and this was as good a spot as any other. He could climb a tree to see better, but if he had to get down fast and get back to the others, he would be in a spot. He would be… well, up a tree. He was out of sight of the beach and the ship, but it was only a short dash back to the men if he saw something.

  He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to be out here by himself while the others worked on the camp. The land spirits on the island were angry and hostile. For all he or anyone else knew, they had somehow angered whatever made this place its home. There were many spirits here, or one great one. Whatever it was, it was angry, terribly angry, and strong enough to kill men.

  Behind him, in the direction of the beach, seagulls cried incessantly. He wanted to be back at sea and to be gone from this cursed place. Steiner knew he was as brave as any other man, but this place scared him shitless, and he didn’t mind admitting that. He could fight a man, but the supernatural? No mortal man could do anything against the spirit world. It they were just gone from this place, they would be far better off. But whatever haunted this island, whatever murdered those priests and soldiers… it didn’t want them to leave. Whatever it was, it had damaged the ship to keep them here. Why?

  To his front, a pair of thrushes broke from the trees at the same moment. Startled by something, the birds flew off toward the shoreline. Slowly, without drawing attention to himself by any sudden movement, he eased an iron-tipped arrow from his quiver and nocked it behind his bowstring. His eyes scanned the tree line, searching for any signs of movement. It was probably nothing, but he would be damned if he would take a chance here.

  Then he heard a branch snap behind him and the sound of someone approaching from the beach. He removed his arrow from his string and slipped it back into his quiver. Looking over his shoulder, he saw two men walking toward him: Harald Skull-Splitter and Koll. Gorm must have decided to send two men to replace him rather than just one, which was a good call. He could have made a better choice, though. Steiner had thought he was going to have to kill Harald earlier. Asgrim shouldn’t trust this one. He was nothing but trouble, always trying to stir shit up. It was too bad Bjorn hadn’t finished what he had started in the monastery.

  Both men looked about, obviously trying to find Steiner.

  He stepped out from behind the tree. “Here,” he said.

  The heads of both men spun about in surprise. Clearly, they hadn’t expected him to be so close.

  “Have you seen anything?” Harald asked.

  Steiner shook his head. “No, but a moment ago, something startled a pair of thrushes from over that way.” He indicated inland with his bow.

  All three men stared off toward the trees. They remained like that for some minutes.

  Finally, Koll broke the silence. “Could be nothing.”

  Steiner nodded. “Keep an eye open, anyhow. A man can’t be too careful here.”

  “Aye,” said Harald. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

  Steiner’s eyes narrowed, and he watched the other man’s face carefully as he released the tension on his bowstring and removed the string.

  “Talk to me about what?” Steiner asked. “You’re not going to bring this same shit up again, are you? You’re wasting your time. You’re wasting my time—and you’re beginning to really piss me off.”

  Harald sat down on a large moss-covered stone. His eyes considered Steiner, and he raised his hands, palms toward the other man. “I don’t want a fight. I just want to talk. That’s all.”

  “That’s dangerous enough when the talk is about mutiny,” said Steiner.

  Steiner had never liked Harald. The man thought himself far more clever than he really was. And he was always trying to push the others about, particularly the younger men.

  “It’s not mutiny,” Harald said. “It’s about this place.”

  Steiner shook his head. Dumb shit wouldn’t let it go. He was going to get himself killed. He had no idea how close he had come to dying on the beach earlier. “Harald,” said Steiner. “What do you want?”

  “I want to go home,” said Harald. “To Hedeby. But first, I want to make some profit. So far, this trip has been a complete waste of time.”

  “The captain will—”

  “Nothing. The captain will do nothing. He’s no captain, not no more. His luck is gone. The gods have deserted him—if they were ever even with him.”

  “He’s always brought us through every bit of trouble. He’ll do it again.”

  “He’s a kinslayer. First his own woman, now his brother. You’d serve a man like that?”

  “He had no choice, you damned idiot! I liked Bjorn as well as any other man, but he was crazed. He wouldn’t stop.”

  Steiner prided himself on always keeping his anger in ch
eck, but now, despite his control, he felt it rising. This loudmouthed fool was going to get men killed. Worse, he was trying to convince Steiner to join him and to forsake his vow.

  “Any man can’t keep his own woman, who’d kill his own brother, doesn’t deserve to be captain,” Harald hissed.

  “Listen carefully, Harald. You’ve sworn an oath, an oath! You’d damn yourself forever if you break it now.”

  “No!” Harald jumped to his feet, his face red. “He broke his oath to us first. He promised us plunder and fame. Instead, we’ve traveled halfway around the world, and for what? Nothing! There’s nothing here but death and the fucking otherworld.”

  “You need to trust him,” Steiner said, his fingers once again drifting near the hilt of his long-knife. “Asgrim Wood-Nose is the best damned captain I’ve ever seen. He’ll bring us out of this.”

  Looking away, Koll nonchalantly stepped to the side of Steiner.

  “Harald,” Steiner said very slowly, “If that fucking idiot friend of yours moves one more step, I’ll cut his balls off. Then I’ll gut you.”

  Harald’s eye’s locked on his, and they remained like that for long moments. Finally, Harald looked away first, shaking his head in resignation.

  “Fine, stay loyal to that ugly bastard,” Harald said. “But he’ll kill us all.”

  Steiner stepped to the side, away from both men. He glanced at the other man, who was leaning against a tree, trying to feign innocence.

  “You have the watch,” Steiner said.

  “Aye,” muttered Harald.

  Damned stupid fools. Steiner walked away from both of them. They would keep causing trouble, he knew. Harald was going to keep stirring up the others until he decided he had enough of the men to challenge Asgrim. And then he would die for the attempt. Asgrim would kill him; Steiner had no doubt of this. But it would cause more trouble. And they would need every man if the Franks came against them while they were stuck here.