Black Monastery (19 page)

He needed to take back his ship. And abandon Alda.

He forced away his guilt and replaced it with anger. He was a Dane, a war band leader. He couldn’t be responsible for every foolish woman he came across.

As he got closer to the beach, he began to consider what he would do next. He had no plan and did not know how he would take on Harald Skull-Splitter and his cronies. By now, any man who had been loyal to Asgrim would have given him up for dead and transferred that loyalty to Harald. But Harald should have made sure he had killed Asgrim. Leaving him alive was stupid.

He would pay for that mistake—if he was even still here.
Sea Eel
could be halfway home.

However, the moment Asgrim stepped out onto the beach, he saw
Sea Eel
still sitting where he had left her, with the mast still impaling her hull. Harald had built no log palisade and made no repairs. In fact, there was no camp, and there were no Danes.

Sea Eel
sat abandoned.

“What foolishness is this?” Asgrim asked himself.

His vision narrowed on the ship. He shook his head and exhaled, then wiped his sweaty palms against his legs before drawing
Heart-Ripper.
With sword in hand, he stalked toward his ship. The incoming waves cast cold spray into the air. Gulls shrieked as they climbed and dived along the shoreline.

Why would Harald abandon his only way home? It made no sense.

The ship was exactly as he had left it the day Harald and the others had attacked him. He climbed over the hull and saw that animals had been all over the ship, making a mess. He plopped down on a bench and considered his options. With a crew, he could still repair the hull. But without his men to help him, this ship would never leave this beach again. He could never fix it by himself, and there was no way he could sail it alone. He needed help. Where would Harald have taken the men? Had the
djinn
attacked them? If so, where were the bodies? Even the corpses of the men Asgrim had killed were not here. Harald must have buried or burned them.

His gaze darted about, searching for signs of his men. His stomach churned, and restlessness settled over his dark thoughts. These were good lads, most of them. And he had promised to look after them, to bring them back home. So far, he had failed, and this was all his fault. If he hadn’t brought his men to the island, none of this would have happened. Bjorn would still be alive, and so would Gorm. Harald may have led the mutiny, but Asgrim had set the conditions in which the men would feel they had no other choice.

He should have sailed away as soon as he realized the monastery was cursed, when he still had time to escape.

So where were his men?

Some of the men had wanted to raid the village, to get revenge for the slaughter of the men he had left behind to defend the ship. Asgrim had seen little profit in stealing from villagers, but Harald likely did. And there were women in the village. Many of the men would find that alone worth a fight—especially after he had denied them Alda.

He searched the ship, but found little worth taking. An empty waterskin, a small roll of walrus-hide rope, an old wool blanket, and a small skinning knife had been left behind. All the shields and weapons were gone, reinforcing his suspicions that Harald had led the men to the village.

But if they had raided the village, why had they not returned to the ship? Those people were farmers and fishermen, not warriors. Had Harald decided to stay there? If so, why? Could he have gone somewhere else? Asgrim had nothing but questions, and no answers were to be found on the ship. The village lay to the south, near the long spit of land that almost reached the mainland.

He dropped back down over the hull of
Sea Eel
. That was when he first saw the Frankish knight watching him from about five paces away, standing like a statue. Instantly, Asgrim’s skin turned clammy, and he froze, rooted to the spot.

It was Cuthbert, the one possessed by the eastern spirit. He had not felt the spirit’s unearthly presence this time.

Why not?

As if someone had suddenly poured water into a cup, he felt the spirit’s presence. It hit him all at once, staggering him with its enormity. The two men stared at one another, neither moving. The omnipresent cries of the gulls sounded faraway and distorted, almost as if he were hearing them from underwater. His muscles trembled, almost vibrating, and he knew he should do something, but he just couldn’t bring himself to move.

How long had the knight been standing there watching him?

He was as tall as Asgrim, with a knight’s wide shoulders. But he also looked gaunt, as if he had lost much weight. His fine coat of Frankish chain mail looked too large for him. His hair was cut short in the Frankish style, but his face with pale, bloodshot skin and all-black eyes looked more as though it belonged on a corpse. He carried a sword in a scabbard around his waist, but had not drawn it. Even without a weapon in his hand, this…
thing
radiated power and menace. This was no man, Asgrim knew, not anymore.

Pain coursed through Asgrim’s jaw from grinding his teeth, and his knees began to shake violently.

Don’t collapse, damn it. Don’t collapse!

Finally, the spirit spoke: “
What are you, northman?
”

Asgrim’s mouth opened and then closed again wordlessly. He couldn’t bring himself to form words. At the same time, he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the Frank’s black eyes.

“At first, I thought you a kindred spirit, a predator like me, but now, I feel the taint of another realm on you, a realm I’ve never touched before. You’ve spoken with the dead, haven’t you? Why?”

“I… you…” Asgrim’s chest hurt, and breathing was a chore. He felt suffocated, as if there weren’t enough air left in the world.

“But I can still smell the blood of innocents on you, the delicious aroma of wanton slaughter. You’re no hero. You’re one of mine.”
The man smiled, sending shivers through Asgrim’s heart.

“Tell me, northman,”
the Frank continued,
“why did your own men turn on you, cast you out?”

“I…” Asgrim’s vision blurred, and his body swayed in place, like a sail filling and emptying with wind.

“Were they disappointed in you, in your leadership?”

Asgrim’s vision began to darken around the edges, and he heard the buzzing of thousands and thousands of flies, building in intensity, coming from everywhere.

“Stop… you.” The droning of the flies became a storm, yet still, the spirit’s words reached him and vibrated within his skull.

“I can’t
be
stopped. Didn’t your dead explain that to you? You can’t kill what was never alive.”

“You…” Asgrim’s fingers finally began to move, drifting over the hilt of
Heart-Ripper
across his back.

The spirit’s eyes narrowed, and then it nodded, still smiling.
“All right, northman, we’ll play this game out to the end. Just know, I could have taken you now—without your even being aware of my presence. Soon, but not yet. For now, know that I will not permit you to remain with the woman. Such frivolities are unbecoming for killers like us… and I do so wish to skin something.”

It turned away and walked into the trees, disappearing almost immediately, leaving Asgrim alone again. The cacophony of the flies abruptly disappeared, and Asgrim’s legs gave out. He fell to the sand, gasping for air, seeing bright spots in his vision. He ran his hand over his face, and his palm came away bloody, leaving a smear from his nose.

He couldn’t fight that thing. It was impossible.

He rolled over onto his back and closed his eyes, trying to regain control over his racing heart, feeling as if he had just fought all day long.

His eyes flashed open. Alda!

* * *

Alda knelt in her garden, tending her herbs, still feeling sorry for herself. She knew she had to get over her self-pity. She needed to be strong to survive the coming winter alone. For now, though, she just couldn’t help it. She realized she barely knew Asgrim and couldn’t even speak his language. What future could they have had together? None. At least her brother-in-law was dead and wouldn’t ever hurt her again. With all that had occurred on the island—the evil at the monastery, the battle between the soldiers and the monks, and the presence of the Vikings—Alda doubted anyone would ever connect her to the disappearance of the three men. She yanked some weeds out and wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her arm.

She would have to keep going, to survive.

Alone.

She had no other choice.

She paused, feeling as though she were being watched. Standing slowly, she picked up a wooden ax lying nearby and looked about the trees around her. The forest was silent and still. Even the birds had stopped singing.

Everything felt so very, very wrong.

When a branch snapped in the direction of the trail that led to her hut, Alda’s head spun about, and she gasped. Holding the ax in front of her, she slowly backed away toward the front door of her hut.

Someone was coming.

Thirteen

Alda’s Hut,

August 6, 799,

Late morning

Asgrim ran through the trees, desperation and fear spurring him on. How long had it taken him to reach the beach from Alda’s hut? He couldn’t remember, but it hadn’t been that far; nothing was very far on such a small island
.
Then, sooner than he would have thought, he burst out of the trees and arrived back at her hut.

“Alda, where are you, woman?” he called out as he stuck his head through her door.

The hut was empty. Everything was exactly as he had left it, as he had left her. It looked as though she had just that moment stepped away. His gaze darted about, settling on the still-smoldering fire. She wouldn’t have left a fire burning.

He stepped outside again, feeling chills run down his spine. He began to stalk through the nearby woods, looking for signs of her. Starting near her garden, he searched the ground for her tracks, slowly moving in an ever-increasing spiral around her hut. With each pass, he moved deeper into the woods.

The spirit had been here; he was certain of it. After mocking him, it had left him and come here for Alda. Why? And why after he had already left her? It could have killed them both at any point over the last couple of days. It didn’t seem to want him dead. But what was it—

He staggered in place, staring at the blood-soaked ground near the base of an elm tree. So much blood. Flies settled over the wet ground, droning madly. In horror, his gaze drifted up, seeking the blood’s source. When he saw her, he dropped to his knees and moaned. Hanging by the arms, which were literally tied around a tree branch, was Alda’s bloody skin. The gods-damned
djinn
had skinned her, and the empty husk slowly dripped blood. Her head hung forward, and her long hair, now dark with matted blood, mud, and leaves hung down, obscuring her face, which was a small mercy, because he couldn’t stand to look into her dead eyes anyway. On the other side of the elm tree lay the obscene, gleaming pile of her internal organs, tissue, and bones.

His fault, all his fault.

Shaking his head, he closed his eyes and swayed in place, kneeling on the forest floor. He couldn’t go any closer. He could do nothing more for her.

No. There was vengeance. He could
kill
the damned
djinn
.

Kill a spirit?

He rose to his feet and turned away, staggering back to the empty hut. Nothing. He could do nothing. What man could fight the dead?

He leaned against a tree trunk beside her garden and gripped it with both hands, certain he would collapse if he didn’t hold himself up. He settled his forehead against the rough bark and closed his eyes, staying like that for some time, breathing deeply, knowing that he had betrayed Alda and left her defenseless. She had saved his life, and he had let the spirit take her.

A twig broke nearby. Turning, he glared into the forest and saw a flash of movement as someone darted behind the trunk of a large tree. The forest was silent; pink blossoms drifted through the air, landing on the ground.

Grinding his teeth, Asgrim reached above his shoulder and drew
Heart-Ripper
. Maybe he couldn’t kill this thing, but he would die trying.

“Come out, damn you, spirit!”

The figure that stepped out from behind the tree was a man, but not the
djinn
. Haggard and filthy, with twigs and leaves stuck in his blond hair and beard, he looked as though he had been sleeping in bushes—and not well. He wore leather armor and carried a battle-ax in both hands. With a wild, crazed look in his eyes, Harald Skull-Splitter glared hatred at Asgrim.

“Harald,” Asgrim said, a dangerous smile playing on his lips, “Where’re my men?”

Stepping closer, Asgrim made sure he had room to fight, quickly scanning his surroundings and making sure Harald was alone. He felt the familiar rush of excitement, the dry mouth, and the racing pulse.

The other man assumed a fighting stance and glared at Asgrim. “Not
your
men. Not no more.”

He looked half-starved. Good.

Harald’s eyes took in the hut behind Asgrim. “So this is where you crawled away to hide, coward.”

Asgrim stepped to the side, slowly closing the distance. He assumed a high guard position, both hands gripping the sword hilt near his ear. He would have preferred to have a shield, but a man made do with what he had.

“I should have let Bjorn kill you.”

Harald’s eye twitched in a spasm. “You can try it yourself, you ugly bastard!” He lunged, swinging his ax up from the middle guard position, trying to catch Asgrim under the chin with its edge. But Asgrim stepped back, easily knocking the ax head aside with the flat of his blade before darting forward in an attempt to cut the underside of Harald’s exposed arm. Yet for all his other faults, Harald was an experienced fighter, and he stepped back out of range of Asgrim’s sword.