Black Monastery Read online

  His thoughts swirled about his head as he walked away. He would need to talk to the captain about this. Harald had gone too far. If he had the courage to try to convince Steiner, a man he knew to be loyal to the captain, to break his oaths, then he was almost certainly already convinced the others would do so. Harald had sealed his own fate. Asgrim would need to kill him now. There was no other option.

  So be it. If this was Harald’s fate, it wasn’t Steiner’s fault.

  “Hey, Steiner!” Harald called out from behind him.

  What now?

  Steiner’s eyes narrowed as he turned back to the two men who were too far away now to pose a threat.

  “You had your chance, fucker,” Harald said, a smug look on his face.

  Steiner’s eyes narrowed. And then he sensed movement from right behind him and heard the sound of a man stepping out from behind a tree where he had been hiding. Steiner spun about, dropping his bow and going for his long-knife. But he was too slow, and something smashed into the side of his head. His legs gave out, and he dropped to the ground. His fingers still fumbled for his long-knife as Mar advanced toward him, a club in his hand. The club descended once more, and Steiner’s world went black.

  * * *

  For the second time in a single day, Asgrim and his men lit a fire and burned their dead. Asgrim stood apart from the others; even Hopp, who rarely left his side, had found somewhere else to be. They had set the weapons of the dead men on top of their mangled remains, hoping the spirits of the men would find their way to Valhalla. None of the weapons showed signs of use. If these men had fought back, they had accomplished nothing. Still, Asgrim prayed for their sake that they had died with their weapons in hand, as Bjorn had.

  There was evil on this island. And somehow, it was connected to the man the monks had entombed in the crypt: Saint Philibert, the founder of their monastery. First, this evil had possessed the monks, turning them against each other, then the villagers, and finally against the soldiers sent to protect them. It had taken his brother Bjorn, as well, but only after Asgrim had forced him to go down into that cursed crypt.

  It was Asgrim’s fault his brother was dead.

  All his fault.

  Now this same evil had trapped them here. How long did they have until Frankish soldiers from the mainland arrived? A day or two at best, maybe not even that long. They needed to build a wall right away.

  But their situation, although grave, wasn’t completely hopeless. They had the provisions they had taken from the fort, which would last them at least a week or two. And eighty Danish warriors was a formidable force, each man a killer. If Asgrim put them behind a log wall, they would hold against anyone foolish enough to challenge them. What other choice did they have? Besides, they only needed to make temporary repairs here and put the mast back up. After they sailed away, they could hole up in some small, deserted inlet somewhere and fix Sea Eel properly. This would work. He would make it work.

  Asgrim turned away from the bonfire and left the men to their grief and fear. He needed to get them working, to take their minds off the murder of their friends and their situation. He circled his beached ship, examining the ground, picking the best place to build the log wall. He felt the eyes of his men on him and sensed their anger and resentment.

  They had a right to be angry, he knew. It was his fault they were here. He had brought them all this way seeking plunder to pay his wergild, which had been fairly levied upon him. If only he hadn’t been so drunk that night and so full of self-pity, so taken by rage and jealousy…

  He forced his thoughts back to the task at hand. Once they repaired Sea Eel, they could leave this damned place. They could find some other place to plunder. He could still make this work.

  Pacing a perimeter around Sea Eel, he counted his steps and measured where the wall needed to go. Fresh water would be a problem, especially if they were besieged by the Franks, which was likely. He should send Gorm out with a party of men to find a stream. It would have to be a large party, considering whoever—or whatever—had killed five of his men was still out there. Twenty men should be safe.

  Several of his men were approaching, carrying more driftwood to the funeral pyre. Gorm too was walking over to join him. He wore a worried look on his face, as well he should; he had much to be concerned about.

  Asgrim faced his ship, considering the hole in Sea Eel’s hull. The damage was extensive, but they could fix it. They would have to cut and shape replacement planks, but there were no good trees here, not the oak he needed. Any repairs would only be temporary, lasting just long enough to find a better source of wood. The mast, in particular, would be an issue, but even if they couldn’t replace the mast here, they could row their way along the coast to someplace where they could. He touched the jagged edges of the broken planks in his hull, marveling at the force it had taken to shove the mast through them.

  He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the slanted edge of the hull. So far, all of his decisions had turned out badly, but he could still get away from the island. That much he could do…

  Then his thoughts halted abruptly as he stared in confusion at the fresh blood spots on the deck of Sea Eel leading to something shoved under one of the benches. Squinting, Asgrim saw glistening wet fur in the shadows beneath the bench, then the long pink tongue hanging out of a dog’s mouth.

  Hopp? It was Hopp.

  His muscles went rigid as he straightened, turning away from the boat. A sudden coldness swept through him. Someone had killed his dog.

  Spinning about, Asgrim saw the three men now closing in on Gorm from behind with weapons in hand. Two of them were Harald Skull-Splitter’s mates, Koll and Mar.

  “Gorm, look out—”

  His warning came too late. Gorm paused mid-step and glanced toward Asgrim—just as Koll shoved a spear through Gorm’s back so hard that the weapon’s head jutted out of his chest. Asgrim heard the pounding of boots on either side of him and saw a flash of movement.

  The men carrying driftwood!

  He threw himself forward, scrambling through the hole in the side of Sea Eel, just as an ax struck the wood behind him. Three men had rushed him. One of them was Harald Skull-Splitter, his face twisted in rage. Another, the young man Glum, reached through the hole after Asgrim, grasping at his legs with one hand while stabbing at him with a long-knife in the other. Asgrim kicked back hard, smashing Glum in the face and hearing the satisfying snap of cartilage. Glum fell back, but Harald and the third mutineer, Glum’s buddy Ham, pulled themselves over the side of Sea Eel. Asgrim scrambled to his feet and backed up toward the prow of his ship, drawing Heart-Ripper from its sheath over his back. He didn’t have his shield.

  “Gods-damned oath-breakers,” he snarled. “I’ll kill you!”

  A quick glance showed him that a fight had broken out among the rest of his men. Most of the men stood watching, but others wrestled on the sand. No one moved to come help Asgrim. Worse, the three men who had killed Gorm were now rushing to join Harald. Bastard was well prepared for this, Asgrim realized. Harald and Ham stalked forward down the slanted ship; both men held hand axes.

  Ham struck first, but clumsily. Asgrim knocked the attack aside, while at the same time extending his parry down the wooden ax handle, cutting into the hand holding the ax. The young man shrieked, dropping both ax and fingers. Asgrim stepped in, putting Ham between himself and Harald. He gripped the young man’s long hair in one hand and spun him about before slashing open his throat.

  Blood sprayed into Harald’s face, and Asgrim threw the dying Ham into him, entangling him. If he’d had the time, he would have killed Harald, as well, but he didn’t because the other men were almost on him. A spear flew toward him, and he nearly slipped on the bloody deck as he knocked it aside with his sword. He turned and leapt off the opposite side of Sea Eel, landing on the sand.

  “Kill him, you idiots!” Harald Skull-Splitter yelled.

  The men ran around Sea Eel’s prow in an attempt to cut him off,
and Asgrim tossed Heart-Ripper to his other hand as he pulled his hand ax from his belt. As the first man, Koll, rounded the prow of the ship, Asgrim threw the ax, catching him square in the face. Gorm’s killer fell onto his back, and the handle of Asgrim’s ax vibrated as it stood straight up.

  The other two men paused, probably realizing Asgrim was not the easy prey they had hoped he would be. Seizing their indecision, Asgrim spun and ran for the trees. Immediately, he heard them running after him. He was almost at the trees when something slammed into him from behind, sending him stumbling and almost falling. Heart-Ripper slipped from his fingers as intense pain coursed through his left shoulder, stabbing down his arm. His shield arm felt wrong, then went numb. He gasped for air and saw the spear that had hit him lying in the dirt just behind him. His chain mail must have stopped it from penetrating his flesh, but he felt as if the impact had broken something just the same.

  He bent over and grasped at the hilt of Heart-Ripper as his pursuers closed in on him. If he was to die, he would do it with his sword in his hand. Despite pain numbing the left side of his body, he fumbled for his weapon, only just managing to pick it up. He stumbled into the foliage without looking back. Branches snapped behind him as Asgrim ran stumbling through the trees. His breath came in ragged pain-filled gulps, and the numbness in his arm and shoulder started to spread throughout the left side of his body. Was he bleeding? Had the spear point penetrated, after all? His vision began to grow dim.

  He heard the gurgling of a stream just before he burst out onto its banks. He slipped on the mud and tumbled down the embankment, then splashed into the water. As he hit, white-hot fire lanced through his body. Somehow, he staggered to his feet and splashed down the stream. He no longer heard his pursuers, but they couldn’t be very far behind; Harald couldn’t let him go. If he did, some of the men might suddenly remember their oaths.

  He considered making a stand, but he knew he was too badly hurt to do more than die—and he wanted to live, to get revenge on the oath-breakers and take back his ship. If he fought back now, they’d defeat him easily. He needed to get away first, to recover his strength.

  Dizziness rushed in on him, and he almost fell. He stopped running, bent over, and waited for the disorientation to pass, using the respite to try to catch his breath. A cold sweat drenched him, and he knew he was spent, unable to run much farther. He had to hide while he still could.

  Lush green vegetation grew wild along the muddy banks of the stream, and Asgrim stumbled into a thick patch of bushes. He crawled into the bushes as deeply as he could, using his right arm to drag himself along. It was a poor hiding spot, but he didn’t have any other choice. Once again, vertigo swept through him.

  They would find him here, he knew. They would drag him out and finish him, and they would laugh as they did it. This was where he would die, not like a man, but like a wounded animal. Desperate to hold on to the weapon, he squeezed Heart-Ripper’s hilt. Once he was dead, the sword would belong to Harald—the gods-damned oath-breaker—Skull-Splitter. But perhaps it was no more than he deserved, punishment for Freya, for Frodi, the fate the crones had spun for him.

  No man could avoid his fate.

  Still, he wished he had let Bjorn kill Harald when he had the chance.

  Drowsiness drifted through his body, and he had to fight to stay awake. Birds sang overhead, and beams of sunlight streamed through the bushes. It was a perfect summer day, as good a day as any to die. Farther down the stream, boots splashed through water.

  “Here they come.”

  He tried to control his breathing, to slow it down, but it was no good. He was too exhausted, and they would hear him for sure. How could they miss him? Had he left boot prints in the wet mud leading to his hiding spot? Probably. He bit his lip, knowing he needed to stay conscious just a little longer. He couldn’t die in his sleep, helpless.

  And then the air seemed to throb with the exact same malignancy he had felt in the crypt and in the fort when the Frankish knight had spied on them. His blood began to pound in his ears, and he shivered uncontrollably. The smell of sea air washed over him, as if he were surrounded by waves. Then he saw the legs of a man standing in front of his hiding spot, facing him. Cuthbert, the Frankish knight, bent down and regarded Asgrim with a look of amusement on his face. The Frank sported a long, drooping moustache over a beardless chin. His face was pale, and his veins were visible under the skin. He looked like a dead fish left to rot in the sun.

  “What do you here, man of the north, hiding like a squirrel?” he asked in perfect Danish. “I thought you a wolf, a predator.”

  The Frank’s voice seemed to throb within Asgrim’s skull. He opened his mouth to answer, but the words wouldn’t come. The air felt heavy, like water.

  Cuthbert’s eyes glanced away, toward the noise of the approaching traitors hunting Asgrim. He looked back and then nodded, smiling as if he had just understood the punch line of a joke. “This is no fitting end for a killer like you. Sleep, northman. We shall speak again soon.”

  He straightened and disappeared without another word. Asgrim couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer, but just before he drifted into sleep, he heard men screaming.

  Eight

  An unknown shoreline,

  An unknown time.

  Tendrils of fog clung to Asgrim’s legs, and thick walls of mist blanketed the world around him, turning it grey. It was unearthly quiet, a complete absence of sound, like a becalmed sea. He stood barefoot on a pebbled beach, and paces away, the oncoming tide soaked the shoreline, depositing clumps of seaweed and froth. The air was dense with the smell of the sea, thick and cloying, almost overpowering. And it was cold, too cold to be Frankia. It felt more like autumn in Denmark, but the shoreline looked nothing like home.

  He didn’t know where he was, but he knew this was not a place of men.

  “Asgrim Wood-Nose,” called a voice from the sea.

  He turned and stared. A young man stood in the water, paces from the shore, watching him. The air around Asgrim seemed to throb and push in on him.

  It was Frodi, but Frodi was dead. This could only be a draugr, a spirit. Did this mean Asgrim was dead, as well? The last thing he remembered was looking into the eyes of the Frankish knight, the Frankish spirit. Was this the afterlife?

  Asgrim stared in horror, and his throat constricted. When he spoke, the words came out like a croak. “Frodi? Why are you here?”

  The young man’s skin was so pale that it looked blue and bloodless. Water drenched his long blond hair, soaking it to his skull.

  “She wants to see you,” said Frodi. “She has a message.”

  “Who has a message?” Asgrim asked.

  “I can’t stay. I can’t see her. It isn’t permitted.”

  “See who?” asked Asgrim, already knowing.

  Freya. He meant Freya.

  Pink blood dripped from the ends of Frodi’s hair and stained his shirt. Had the blood been there before? He didn’t think so. One long rivulet of red suddenly ran down Frodi’s forehead, along his nose, and into his mouth.

  “I liked you,” Frodi said. He cocked his head as he regarded Asgrim. His eyes tightened. “You know, I asked my father if I could sail with you, to go to Ireland. He told me to wait until I was a year older. Said there’d still be time for plunder.”

  “I… I…” Asgrim’s skin burned, yet for some reason, he shivered.

  “I’m sorry we did it, dishonored you. But I loved her, and she loved me,” said Frodi, his face clearly pained. “We had no choice. No choice.”

  “I… I…”

  “She never loved you, you know, never.”

  “I… know,” answered Asgrim.

  Their marriage had been arranged, bought and paid for. In truth, Freya had been nothing more than another possession, despite Asgrim’s feelings for her. She had been beautiful, so beautiful. Tears and shame.

  “We had to do it,” said Frodi. “I’m sorry, but we had no choice. None.”

  Breathing t
he humid, heavy air became harder. “I’m… sorry also, Frodi. I was angry, drunk.”

  “Sorry?” mumbled Frodi, sounding as though he didn’t understand the word. He turned away, facing out to sea, and began to walk. Each step sank deeper into the water. Blood drenched the entire back of his shirt.

  “I didn’t realize what I was doing,” Asgrim called after him.

  A wave of dizziness overcame him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, bending over at the waist and covering his face with his palms. He had recognized the lie on his lips the moment he had spoken it. He had known exactly what he was doing, and the moment of rage had felt good, pure, and right. The alcohol had only made it easier.

  He opened his eyes and found himself standing deep within a forest. The fog was gone, but it was still a cloudy, grey day. The leaves on the trees were turning red and falling, blanketing the forest floor. In the darkening sky above, clouds roiled and churned. Lightning struck nearby, burning away the shadows.

  “Hello, husband,” a woman said from behind.

  He turned, his heart sinking. Freya sat on a fallen tree trunk, her small hands clasped over her knees. She was as beautiful as she had always been. She wore a simple green dress, and her striking red hair was pulled back and tied in a ponytail over her shoulder. Her skin was white, like snow, with a sprinkling of freckles over her tiny nose. She looked like the young bride she had been, the perfect companion with whom he would raise children. But she was dead, and there was a chill in her eyes that hadn’t been there in life. As she regarded Asgrim, this coldness seemed to seep into him, freezing him.

  Lightning flashed again, and for a moment, she was naked and covered in blood.

  He moaned, shutting his eyes. “I’m so sorry. So sorry.”

  “It is too late for sorry, husband,” she said. “You of all men should know this.” Her voice carried no warmth. It was the voice of the dead, devoid of all joy, all happiness.

  When he found the courage to open his eyes again, she was as she had been before, unhurt, as if she were alive. But she wasn’t.