Black Monastery (18 page)

Bjorn pointed with his beer mug at Asgrim’s hands. “So you’ve killed Freya already, have you?”

“Of course,” Asgrim answered. “She was unfaithful.”

Gorm snorted. “Unfaithful? Gods, man, she rutted with all of us, even me.”

“S’truth,” said Bjorn. Then he paused, frowning. “Still, she was your wife.”

Bjorn’s wife, Dalla, appeared and dropped onto Bjorn’s lap. She scowled at her husband, gripped his blond beard and shook his head. “No, you’re wrong, you great big lout. She was as faithful to this ugly freak as she could be. She only ever cheated on him once, and Frodi is very, very good looking.”

“Was,” answered Asgrim. “Was.”

“Was,” repeated Gorm solemnly.

Dalla shook her head. “You’ve blood on your hands, Asgrim Wood-Nose.”

“Blood on your hands,” said Bjorn.

“Blood on your hands,” repeated Gorm.

Dalla snuggled closer into Bjorn’s lap and nuzzled her nose against his neck. She was small, plump, and dark-haired—nothing at all like Bjorn. His brother doted on her and always had, even as children. Everyone had just known they would be a pair. It hadn’t been that way with him and Freya. In truth, Freya hadn’t been much more than a child when Asgrim married her. Her father had thought it a wonderful arrangement at the time, but that had been before Asgrim had killed her. Asgrim noticed Freya’s widower father, Engli, sitting alone in a corner of the hall, drinking beer and staring at his feet. Had Asgrim invited Engli to his home? He didn’t remember.

At that moment, as if he were suddenly aware that Asgrim was watching him, the old man stood and glared at him. “You’re a murderer, Wood-Nose,” he called out across the mead hall, interrupting conversations. “You’ve slaughtered my baby. First you took her innocence, then you took her life.”

“Shut up, old man,” Gorm called out. “Asgrim’s a great captain. He’s lucky.”

“No, he’s not,” answered Engli. “He’s cursed, and you’re going to die following him.”

Gorm scowled and turned away from the old man. But a pool of glistening blood was now spreading out over his chest, soaking through his woolen over-tunic.

Asgrim pointed to it with his beer pitcher. “You’re bleeding, Gorm.”

Gorm glanced down at his chest. He seemed puzzled by the blood. “So I am. I hope the beer doesn’t get out.”

They all laughed at this, including Asgrim, who had already forgotten Engli. He watched their faces, enjoying the camaraderie. Then he noticed Bjorn’s eyes, and the laughter died in his throat. “Brother,” he said. “Your eyes are black.”

Dalla sat back and looked at her husband, who now sat silent and staring. He could have been a corpse sitting upright. She shook her head and glanced back at Asgrim. “He’s damned.”

“I know,” answered Asgrim. “We’re all damned.”

“He’s not in Valhalla,” Dalla whispered. “It’s not right that a man like my Bjorn didn’t get to go to Valhalla.”

“Damned,” whispered Asgrim.

“You have no luck,” yelled Freya’s father. “You’re a kinslayer, a murderer. The gods have deserted you. Even your own men have turned on you.”

An eerie silence dropped like a sail over the mead hall. Every single man and women turned and stared at Asgrim. When they spoke, they spoke with a single voice, throbbing and powerful.

“Kinslayer. Murderer. Damned.”

Asgrim turned on his stool and glared at his guests. But they were no longer his guests. Now, the only people within the mead hall were his crew, the men who had betrayed him. Clearly in charge, Harald Skull-Splitter stood in front of them.

With a grimace on his lips, Asgrim jumped up and threw his half-empty beer pitcher at Harald, spraying beer. “To Niflheim with all of you. Odin curse you. You are oath-breakers. Every one of you.”

“Kinslayer. Murderer. Damned,” they all chanted in unison.

All of their eyes were black and accusing.

“It’s watching you,” Harald said. “It’s always been watching you. It wants
you
, Asgrim Wood-Nose.”

“Watching you. Wants you,” the men chanted.

Asgrim’s temper flared as white-hot as the sun, and he stormed out of the mead hall. He would be damned if he would drink with oath-breakers. The door of his mansion slammed behind him as he stomped out into the Danish winter.

Cuthbert stood waiting for him, with all-black eyes.

Asgrim bolted upright, panting in the dark of Alda’s hut, his heart hammering against his naked chest, sweat drenching his skin.

Alda mumbled something in her sleep in her Frankish tongue. Asgrim barely heard it. Instead, he heard the voices from his dream once more: Kinslayer. Murderer. Damned.

And he was.

* * *

It sat cross-legged on the ocean’s floor, not far from the island’s shoreline, perhaps only a hundred paces into the water. No fish swam near it, none ever did. As soon as it had entered the water, all life had fled from its presence, just as the birds and the animals of the woods had.

It was searching, seeking, using the waves to advance its awareness out past the terrestrial limits of the island. And, with no surface distractions and only the gentle rocking of the ocean’s current, it brooded over its choices. The flesh of the knight Cuthbert was rotting. Soon, it would have to take another host or risk entrapment. Leaving this island would be simple enough. It now had both the means and power to take what it needed—and it had already identified a new strong host in the northerner. In fact, it had nearly taken the warrior earlier that day when it had stumbled across him and his female. Only one reason had stopped it: the easterners.

They were still out there somewhere, waiting, hatching their miserable little plots, preparing to force their will upon it again.

Never! That would never happen again.

If it took the warrior before dealing with them, his body might begin to rot too soon, and it wanted the warrior for after it left the island, not before. No, it was best to wait, to keep the warrior fresh until it needed him. Once it had dealt with the easterners, nothing could stop it. Nothing. Then, when it was safe, it would inflict such delightful pain and misery upon every mortal it came across. Thousands and thousands would suffer.

The thought was such a pleasant one.

It closed Cuthbert’s eyes, sending its awareness out further, pushed by the waves and the undersea current.

And then it found them. They were coming.

It smiled.

Eleven

Alda’s Hut,

August 6, 799,

Just before dawn

Further sleep eluded Asgrim that night, and he lay on his back on Alda’s sad little bed, staring up at the thatched roof. Alda turned in her sleep, and her flesh, sticky and hot, pressed up against his. She moved her head, resting it across his chest, her hair near his face, her breath wet against his skin.

There was no future here with Alda, only momentary joy, an all-too-brief respite from the misery that was his life. Somehow, this woman had looked past his ruined face, accepting him as a lover, giving him the joy of another’s touch. He was grateful, and he was happy, happier than he had been in years. But it couldn’t last. Soon, very soon, his men would fix his ship and sail away, stranding him here. When that happened, he was as good as dead. He had no doubt that, together, he and Alda could survive in the wilderness, but they wouldn’t be left alone. The island was too small. Soon, the Frankish villagers would find out about the Dane living with Alda, and then they would send soldiers for him. There was no way they would live with a northern raider among them. They would be fools if they did. If he had silver, perhaps he and Alda could head inland to find a city where they could lose themselves among the population… but not on the island. They could never stay. He watched the dark shadow of her face lying against his chest. Did she realize that?

He was torn by his need to stay with her, with the only woman who had ever looked past his visage and accepted him as a man, and his need to get his ship back. He wanted—needed—to stay here with her, but there was just no way he could. It was impossible. He truly was damned. He had lost his brother, his best friend, and his ship. Then he’d found a woman who could love him—only to have to leave her behind, perhaps to her death.

Gods damn the Nornar. Gods damn his fate. It was bitterly unfair.

No. No, it wasn’t. It was all that he deserved… and earned.

His fingers gripped the wooden Thor’s hammer on the leather thong about his neck. Freya and Frodi had been in the throes of passion when Asgrim had found them, when he had murdered them. They had loved one another; he knew this to be true. Freya had never loved Asgrim. How could he take their happiness away and then expect to have that same joy? Alda was a special woman, a kind person, but he did not deserve her. He was a monster, on the inside as well as the outside. The gods didn’t want Asgrim Wood-Nose to put down roots and raise a family with a Frankish woman on a foreign shore. He was a sword-Dane, a war band leader, and a Viking. His fate was to kill and take what he wanted; that was all he knew. And what man could change his fate?

No man.

And even if, by some bizarre turn of fate, the Franks chose to leave him and Alda be, how long could they last with the eastern spirit on the loose? They had almost run right into it earlier that day in the woods. It seemed unlikely they could continue to avoid it. He wanted to die with his sword in his hand, so he could reach Valhalla, not to be skinned alive by a spirit. No man should die like that.

But Freya’s words, unbidden and unwelcome, rang out in his memory:
Somehow, you must stop it, Asgrim Wood-Nose. This is your burden now.

He shook his head. No man could fight the dead. The gods take this
djinn!
It was a Saracen spirit and not his concern. He had already lost his brother to it. That was enough. He chased away Freya’s words, banishing them, finding strength in his anger and need for revenge. He knew his anger was self-destructive. But what could he do? That was how the gods had made him and how the crones had woven his life’s thread. No man took advantage of him and lived. Many had tried, and they were all dead now. He had been tricked into coming here by those damned Saracens—and there would be an accounting for that. Even if he never found the same damned merchant again, he would take out his anger on any easterner he did come across. Or better yet, he would destroy one of their settlements. How far south would he have to sail to find Saracen lands? He felt his blood heat. By the gods, someone would pay for tricking him. He had killed his own brother—his own brother! And Harald fucking Skull-Splitter had murdered his friend Gorm and stolen his ship! His hands clenched into fists, and his body went rigid.

No one could take his ship. He would kill them all, the traitorous pricks. He would feed Harald his own stinking guts!

He knew then that he couldn’t stay with Alda. That wasn’t his fate.

Twelve

Alda’s Hut,

August 6, 799,

Early morning

In disbelief, Alda watched Asgrim pull his chain mail coat over his shoulders, then adjust his sword belt over his shoulder. While he did this, he refused to look her in the eyes. He was leaving her. But why? What had she done?

She told herself she would be strong and that she wouldn’t cry, but she couldn’t help it. Tears flowed down her cheeks, which flushed with shame and anger. She turned from him, unwilling to let him see her weakness and how he had hurt her. With her back to him, she stood in front of the fire and poked the embers with a stick. Why was God so cruel? She would be alone again, all alone, and the demon that possessed the knight was still out there somewhere. She would die alone and terrified.

Why did she care if he left? She had only saved him because she needed help with her brother-in-law. Hadn’t she? And he had certainly helped her. Neither that pig nor his friends would ever force themselves on another woman again. She was a mature woman, not some simple girl who was infatuated with a man simply because she had lain with him. But there was more to Asgrim than she had first thought; there was good in him. He had been kind to her. Despite that they had only been together for a short time, she had grown to care for him… if only a little. So what was wrong with her? Why was he leaving?

She closed her eyes and exhaled, trying to find her calm.

There was nothing wrong with her, she realized. It was just God’s will, that was all. Asgrim had saved her from her brother-in-law, but he couldn’t stay with her. She saw that, too, even if she didn’t want to admit it. They had no future together, not here in Frankia. There was no way the villagers would permit his presence on their island. Eventually, men would come to kill him and to kill her, as well. Asgrim was only doing what he had to do. He had to go, but she wanted—no, needed—him to stay with her, to help her survive. She didn’t want to be alone any more. Everyone she loved had left her, and she was so lonely. She understood there was no love between them. It had been too soon for love. But she thought, perhaps, a spark had been kindled into an ember that could grow in time into something stronger, something real.

But it wouldn’t.

She felt his presence behind her, watching her. He placed his calloused hand on her shoulder, but she pulled away without turning to look at him. He stayed there for a while longer, but then she heard him leave.

Alone again, perhaps forever this time, she bent over and sobbed.

* * *

Asgrim headed toward the shore, finding his way back to the stream where he had hidden from the mutineers. His shoulder wasn’t completely healed, but he could move his arm, and if necessary, he could fight. What he couldn’t do was wait any longer. If he did, his ship would be gone… if it weren’t already.

A cool breeze caressed his skin, a welcome relief from the near-constant muggy heat. All too soon, summer would be over, and they needed to be gone before the winter storms made sea travel treacherous. At best, he had only two to three weeks to fix
Sea Eel
and put to sea.