Black Monastery Page 9

  Asgrim looked away. Her fault, not his.

  Gorm was staring at him, waiting for something.

  “What?” Asgrim asked.

  “I asked if you want me to put out sentries while the men have their fun.”

  “Gods yes, man, I want sentries put out. I’m surprised you’d even ask,” Asgrim snapped, surprising himself with his anger.

  Suddenly, the men cheered again, and Asgrim glanced over just in time to see them begin to lower her to the ground. But his eyes were drawn to the source of the men’s cheer—her hair. Someone had pulled away her cap, exposing her striking long red hair. He gasped, and the ground seemed to sway beneath him, as if he were drunk. Her hair was the exact same color as Freya’s had been. His heart hammered wildly, the blood thundering in his ears. Once again, he saw Freya’s dead eyes staring up at him, accusing him.

  He had loved Freya; for all his other crimes, he had loved her.

  He had killed her.

  And now this woman—with the exact same hair…

  Johan stood at her feet, unfastening the string holding his hose. Men yelled at him to hurry up; they wanted their turn.

  “No,” Asgrim said, almost inaudibly. Then he repeated the word with more force, stabbing it at the men’s backs. “No!”

  They paused, turning toward him in confusion. A frightening silence descended upon the woods.

  “There’s no time for this shit!” thundered Asgrim, glaring at them.

  Then they all began to talk at once, creating a low, angry buzzing. Someone mentioned the word “prize.” Most stared stupidly at Asgrim, their faces reflecting their sense of betrayal, as if he had just taken away something that belonged to them—and he had. When warriors went Viking, women were prizes. That was how life was and always would be. Some men went on raids just for that reason. While he never raided specifically for slaves, Asgrim had never before begrudged the men their right to have any woman they came across. Only a fool stood between men with their blood on fire and their rightful prize.

  But he did so now.

  “Leave her be!” he ordered, grabbing Johan by the scruff of his neck and yanking him away. Off-balance, with his hose around his ankles, Johan fell forward into the dirt.

  The others, too surprised to do anything else, cleared a space around her. The naked woman sat up, pulled her knees against her chest, and hugged her legs.

  “Are you going first, then, Captain?” the new lad Ham asked with an uncertain smile on his freckled face.

  Asgrim ignored him. “Where’s the damned prisoner?” he said as he reached for the girl.

  She tried to shrink from him, but he gripped her upper arm and angrily yanked her to her feet, holding her in place with an iron grip. Tears ran down her cheeks, and her eyes were wild, as if she didn’t believe what was happening. No doubt she expected him to take her first before handing her off to the rest of his men.

  He let go of her just long enough to grab her ripped shift from the ground and thrust it at her. “Gods damn it, woman. Cover yourself before I have to kill someone.”

  She may not have understood Danish, but she grasped at her shift and quickly pulled it on. The men continued their angry muttering, but he glared at them, matching their fury, and they stepped back, clearing more space around him and the woman. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted the massive bulk of his brother Bjorn, and Asgrim immediately felt relief. No matter what was up his brother’s ass, he knew he could count on him.

  “I said, where’s the Frank?”

  “Here, Captain.” Gorm pushed the man forward.

  Asgrim had intended to release the Frank as soon as they reached Sea Eel. Instead, he would let him go now—him and the woman. He would get them as far from his men as he could.

  So far, this raid had been nothing but shit. Never in his life had Asgrim even heard of a captain who denied men their rights to captured women.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid woman.

  With far more force than he needed, he shoved her at the prisoner. Asgrim saw the surprise in the man’s eyes as he caught her. She peered through her loose red hair hanging over her face, confusion in her eyes.

  He pointed away from them, angrily stabbing a finger into the woods. “Get out of here!” he bellowed.

  Even though the man did not speak his tongue, Asgrim’s intent was clear, but the Frank still hesitated, looking about himself warily, perhaps suspecting a trick. Asgrim stalked forward, spun them both around, and shoved them toward the trees.

  His trepidation gone, the Frank put his arm around the woman’s shoulders and guided her from the raiders. His men stared sullenly, disbelief still etched on their faces. The resentment would follow. It would simmer and build; they would hate him for this. Some would never, not ever, forgive him, while others back home, when they heard this tale, would shake their heads in wonder at his stupidity and his unfair treatment of the lads.

  They could hate him all they wanted. He would kill any man who challenged him.

  And then Bjorn rushed forward and buried his two-handed ax in the back of Amalric’s skull, splitting it to his shoulder blades.

  The Frank’s body dropped. The woman, tangled up with him, also fell. Bjorn put his boot on the Frank’s corpse and yanked his ax free. As he did, the man’s glistening brains spilled out in a rush. Bjorn turned, and Asgrim’s breath caught in his throat. His brother’s eyes had turned completely black, like the creature he had seen in the crypt. For several moments, Asgrim couldn’t move and only stared in bewilderment.

  Then the girl screamed, and Bjorn turned back to her, standing over her, blood from his ax dripping on her face. Planting his feet on either side of her prostrate form, Bjorn hefted his ax and then raised it up above his head. Asgrim snapped; rushing forward, he hit Bjorn from behind, ramming his shoulder into his brother’s massive bulk. He felt as though he’d run into a tree. Asgrim rebounded and fell onto his back, but he had managed to stagger the larger man and send him stumbling off balance, away from the girl.

  Asgrim jumped to his feet, watching as his brother spun on him.

  “Bjorn,” said Asgrim, raising his hands, palms exposed. “What are you doing?”

  Bjorn lurched forward, striking Asgrim in the chest with the top of his ax. He flew back, his entire body numb with pain. He felt as if he had been struck with a battering ram. When the initial wave of agony passed, he became aware that he was lying on his back, staring up stupidly at Bjorn.

  And in Bjorn’s hate-filled face, Asgrim saw no hint of the brother who had grown up with him, who had played with him as a small child, and who had always followed him as a man. This black-eyed creature was going to kill him.

  His brother stepped forward, raising his Dane ax above his head in both hands. But before Bjorn’s foot hit the ground, Asgrim hooked his brother’s ankle with his own foot and swept it to the side, throwing him off balance. At the same time, Asgrim rolled to his right, away from the descending ax. The ax head buried itself a half foot into the soft earth. As Bjorn freed his ax, Asgrim jumped to his feet.

  Bjorn snarled in rage with a growl that sounded more animal than man. Spit flew from his mouth as he spun back on his brother. In a blur Heart-Ripper was in Asgrim’s hand. His own anger flared, and he fought to control it, to stay calm. Bjorn’s ax whistled as it swept through the air. Asgrim stepped back out of the way. Only a fool attempted to block a two-handed ax with a sword. Then he darted in, slashing at Bjorn’s arms. His sword’s blade connected but slid off Bjorn’s chain mail sleeve without causing any injury. Swords—even Ulfberht blades—couldn’t cut through chain mail. He would need to stab the point through the links to do any damage, but there was no way he was going to kill his own brother. The two men faced off again, slowly stepping to the side as they circled one another. Someone yelled encouragement, but Asgrim couldn’t tell whom it was directed at.

  His brother panted, looking like a crazed animal. Blood and spit dribbled into Bjorn’s blond beard from his mouth. He must ha
ve bit his own tongue, Asgrim realized.

  Bjorn lunged again, and this time, Asgrim couldn’t step out of the way quickly enough and had to block with his sword. Sparks flew from the impact, and Asgrim’s sword was wrenched from his hands, winging off into the air. His arm went numb from the force of the blow.

  Asgrim’s back hit a tree, and he stumbled to a halt. Most of the men stood back watching, too stunned to intervene, but Gorm and one other, Steiner Ghost-Foot, rushed forward, each grabbing one of Bjorn’s arms. He shrugged them both off as if they were nothing more than children, sending them reeling backward without even loosening his grip on his ax. Bjorn then turned back to Asgrim and swung his weapon at him, but the distraction provided by Gorm and Steiner was just enough to allow Asgrim to dodge out of the way. Bjorn followed him, swinging wildly as he tried to take his head off with his ax. Asgrim saw Heart-Ripper gleaming in the dirt, but couldn’t reach it. Screaming in senseless, animalistic rage, Bjorn advanced, his black eyes practically glowing with fury, his ax swinging in wild, uncontrolled arcs, as if he were trying to chop down a tree, not fight a man. Asgrim should have been dead already, he knew; his brother was just that good with an ax. But Bjorn’s fighting was all rage and no skill. The other man seemed to have forgotten all his countless hours of training in favor of using his ax like a club. Eventually, though, his brother would connect. His brother was going to kill him unless he did something. He pulled his hand ax from his belt and tossed it toward his brother, not intending to hit him, but merely distract him. As Bjorn swung wildly to deflect the hand ax, he opened himself up, exposing his midsection. Asgrim, seeing his chance, rushed forward to tackle his brother at his knees. If he could knock him down, he and the others could hold him in place long enough to subdue him. He smashed into the other man, staggering him, but his aim had been slightly off, and instead of knocking his brother down, he only sent him stumbling back several steps. Then Asgrim’s vision exploded into bright light as Bjorn hammered the side of his head with the end of his ax handle, smashing him down onto his back in the dirt. He shook his head, and through his now-blurry vision, he saw Bjorn rushing at him again.

  No!

  He moved instinctively, pushing up off the ground and into his advancing brother. Somehow, his knife was now in his hand. He hadn’t even realized he had drawn it. Bjorn’s eyes opened wide as Asgrim’s knife slipped beneath the bottom of his chain mail, ripping into his flesh. Blood drenched the hand holding his knife, and he let go of it, as if it burned him, but he knew it was already too late.

  Bjorn dropped his ax, and his fingers reached for Asgrim’s throat, then closed around it. Lights popped in Asgrim’s vision as his brother choked him. He was vaguely aware of his brother’s hoarse breathing in his face and the stupefied expression on his features. Asgrim brought his arms up and down, dropping his weight and twisting to the side as he smashed his elbows into his brother’s arms at the elbow. Releasing Asgrim’s throat, Bjorn fell to the ground in one direction as Asgrim collapsed in the other.

  Asgrim coughed and hacked as air flowed back into his pain-filled throat. As his vision cleared, he saw his brother lying on the ground, a foot of glistening intestine hanging from beneath the hem of his chain mail coat. He crawled to his brother over ground already soaked with blood. Bjorn stared at him stupidly, with black eyes still filled with hatred.

  Blood bubbled from his lips, and he mumbled something incomprehensible, something in a language other than Danish.

  Asgrim grasped for the handle of Bjorn’s ax, then thrust it into his brother’s fingers. At first, Bjorn couldn’t hold the weapon, but Asgrim wrapped his brother’s fingers around the shaft and held them in place with his own.

  “I’m sorry, brother,” Asgrim croaked, finding it hard to talk. “I’m sorry.”

  Bjorn didn’t answer. In death, his eyes had returned to their deep blue, but they stared accusingly at Asgrim.

  He pulled his brother’s head to his chest, hugged him hard. “Wait for me in Valhalla, little brother.”

  Despite his pain, Asgrim lifted his head and cried out. His scream echoed through the woods, startling birds.

  * * *

  It felt the destruction of its servant and paused where it stood in the woods. Somehow, his ghul had been sent back to its own realm. Unfortunate perhaps, but failure wasn’t unexpected with lesser servants such as ghuls.

  This man, though, the leader of the raiders, this Asgrim Wood-Nose, he was interesting.

  So was his ship.

  Six

  The Island of Noirmoutier,

  August 3, 799,

  Morning

  The men loitered nearby, talking quietly among themselves, casting nervous glances at Asgrim. Bjorn lay on his back, holding his ax on his massive chest. Asgrim knelt beside him, stuffing his intestines back under his armor.

  Gorm crouched beside him and handed him a wineskin. The other man’s face reflected his sorrow. “Captain, we can’t stay here.”

  Asgrim shook his head and tried to drink a mouthful of wine, but ended up coughing it back up and rubbing his throat.

  Kinslayer. He was a kinslayer. First his wife, now his brother. He had killed his own brother—over a Frankish woman he would never see again. Freya, Frodi, now Bjorn. Had there ever been a man more cursed by the gods? He laughed, really wanting to cry. Gorm stared at him with concern in his eyes. Asgrim drank again, this time getting some of the wine down his throat.

  “Your weapons, Captain.” Gorm handed Heart-Ripper, Asgrim’s hand ax, and his long-knife to him.

  Woodenly, Asgrim took them, then sheathed them. He stared down at his brother’s dead face, which was now unnaturally white.

  “Wasn’t your fault. You had no choice, him or you. No one could blame—”

  “We’re not burying him here,” said Asgrim. “Not here.”

  “What… what, then, Captain?” asked Gorm.

  “I won’t have Franks digging him up, stealing his armor and weapons, desecrating his body. Have the men build a fire. We’ll burn him.”

  “Captain… if we light a fire, we’ll draw more attention to ourselves. There may be Frankish soldiers. They would know where—”

  Asgrim glared over his shoulder at the other man. “We’ve just burned their monastery. Look at the smoke in the air. One more bonfire now won’t make a difference. Besides, I don’t care. We’re going to send my brother to Valhalla—and right now!”

  “Aye, Captain.” Gorm walked away.

  Asgrim searched his brother’s corpse, rooting through his belongings. First, he discarded the small coins and pieces of silver he found in his brother’s coin pouch, letting them plop from his palm onto the wet ground. Then he upended the pouch, letting the rest of the contents spill out, looking for something to keep as a memento of his brother. Instead, his breath caught in his throat when he saw a yellowed fragment among the coins and other spilled knickknacks.

  It was the fragment of bone from the monastery’s crypt.

  His brother had taken it with him. Why?

  Asgrim drew his hand ax and picked up the bone with its blade. He carried it to a nearby moss-covered boulder and set it atop it. This cursed thing had driven his brother mad. He was certain of it. It still carried the taint of the monk’s damned Saint Philibert. The rot of his evil was so strong that it had stayed in his bones, infecting his brother. That had to be what had happened.

  Feeling nauseated, Asgrim glared at the sliver of bone. He hefted his hand ax and then smashed it down on the bone, shattering it. The shock of the impact ran up his arm, but he struck the bone again and again, crushing the pieces into powder, not caring that he would dull his ax blade. When he was done, the bone was nothing more than yellow crumbs cascading down the side of the boulder.

  Feeling empty inside, he stepped back and let the ax hang next to his leg.

  * * *

  The flames of Bjorn’s pyre roared and cracked, their heat washing over Asgrim’s face. It was midday, but the men had taken that
long to gather the wood for Bjorn’s pyre. They had built a four-poster timber platform for his brother’s corpse that was high enough to pile three feet of wood beneath it. The flames were intense, and Bjorn’s body blazed along with them.

  Gorm joined him. “We should get moving, Captain. Bjorn’s gone now, well on his way to Valhalla—if he isn’t there already.”

  The fire popped, and sparks flew out as some pieces of wood shifted and fell.

  Asgrim nodded. If ever a man deserved to drink among the heroes in Odin’s mead hall, it was his brother. What a pathetic end for such a man. Gods damn the crones and their destiny. For the first time ever, he was happy his parents were both dead and couldn’t see what he had become. But Bjorn had a family, a large family. Who would take care of them now? He had an obligation—even though they would hate him for what he had done—but he couldn’t return home yet, not until he raised the wergild for Frodi’s death.

  Asgrim closed his eyes and fought to maintain control over his emotions. He was a captain; he still had a crew he was responsible for, and he had made a promise of plunder to them. Despite what had happened on the island, he needed to keep his word, his ship, and his men.