The Temperate Warrior (17 page)

He yearned to go back in time and change the course of his actions so that he could modify the outcome. Æsa would not be crying and she certainly wouldn’t be offering him a mistress to take into his bed. He wanted only Æsa to fulfill his needs, even if it came to be true that an heir was not possible through her womb. Having children was not his reason for wanting to take her to wife. It would have been an added blessing, but not his motive.

He should have never mentioned children when he proposed the marriage in the first place. It was an innocent oversight as he’d gotten caught up in the excitement of hanging up his sword and settling down with his family to start his own. Any man would have made such a mistake given they were fortunate enough to have the beautiful Æsa as their wife. But he was not just any man of little import. He was a chieftain’s son and a noble warrior, a man who’d been taught to rise above the wrong of the world and stand tall for the weak. Instead, he’d lowered himself to the belly of a slithering serpent.

As he continued to beat himself up, he was tortured by the sound of Æsa weeping behind him. He knew he should get rid of his damned pride and bring her comfort, for she was only trying to be selfless with her unusual offer. She meant no harm to his dignity and was willing to sacrifice her own so he could have a son.

But what kind of woman does that
? What does he say to a woman who’d forgo her self-respect so her less than worthy husband could procure an heir through unthinkable means, albeit distasteful and desperate?

His head spun amongst the chaos of his emotions, his chest tightening as his mind filled with thoughts of self-loathing. He hated himself and what he’d done to make Æsa value his happiness more than her own. Love was not about giving up what one holds dear for the other, but sharing them equally. It was evident she hadn’t the faintest notion of what real love was.

To her it seemed to be an alliance where she felt inclined to accept the terms, no matter how outlandish—and it was all because he failed to be true to the temperate warrior she needed him to be.

Wracked with guilt, Gustaf hardly noticed where he stood. A ring of broken rune stones lay at his feet, encircling an area of dense woods.

“M’lord,” Jørgen announced, his hand outstretched. “We have crossed the perimeter into
Dal Hinna Dauðu
.”

Chapter Twenty

Gustaf gazed at his boot tips, the shattered stones of Halldora’s ancient spell lining the brink of their destination. A haunting airstream kicked up around them, a warning of unnatural forces afoot. Despite the gale force wind that blew through the gorge, a ghostly low-lying fog remained adrift along the forest floor.

With a tentative step, he crossed the threshold, careful not to disturb the boundary of the rocks as he led Æsa and his horse through. He breathed a sigh of relief when they all stepped across unscathed, but the eerie silence of the forest had him hesitant to think their presence was welcomed.

“We are not alone,” Jørgen announced.

Gustaf unsheathed his sword and turned to Æsa. He motioned for her to dismount and caught her with one arm before her feet hit the ground. He set her to the ground and guarded her behind his body as he pressed her against the animal’s side. “Stay close to the horse,” he whispered, handing her the reins. He removed the shield strapped to his back and secured it in his left hand. “Keep your head down.”

He ducked beneath the horse’s head and stalked in stealth toward the front of the group. The only sound he heard was the slow withdrawal of his men’s swords in unison and the random nickering of the uneasy horses behind him.

Eyes drawn to the trees swaying in the wind, he took another step forward.

“Halt!” a deep male voice called out from within the whistling timbers. “You have crossed onto sacred land and unless you wish to take your last breath where you stand, I suggest you turn around and return from whence you came.”

Gustaf gripped his sword a little tighter. “We have come a long way and we mean no harm to the people you safeguard amongst these borders.”

“State your name and your purpose.”

Jørgen and Gustaf exchanged discomfited looks before speaking out. “I am Gustaf, son of Rælik, and these are my men. Their families are protected here and we wish to see them.”

A long pause elapsed after his reply. The hairs on the back of Gustaf’s neck stood up and his stomach hardened. Nausea was close at hand. Here, in this enchanted place, he was a vulnerable target no matter how well he fortified himself with sword and shield. He had no experience negotiating with those whose powers extended beyond the realm of natural forces. Whether real or hoax, he was not about to test the power of black magic or disrespect the supernatural with undue impatience. He’d stand poised and tolerant until the sun set if he had to.

“There is no one here by that name,” the voice said finally.

“’Tis true. You would not recognize it, as you were too young to remember. Halldora would recall my name. Perhaps you might send for her.”

“And leave my post unguarded? Think again.”

Gustaf hid his irritation and bartered further. “Might we at least possess the knowledge of your name before we are turned away?”

“I am Ketill, son of Jørgen. Now be gone.”

Gustaf and Jørgen stared at each other. He could see Jørgen contending with the unfamiliar sound of his grown son’s voice, the realization that he failed to recognize it lay heavy on his heart. Jørgen’s face fell in shame and unshed tears welled in his eyes.

Gustaf spoke on behalf of his awestruck friend. “Unless you wish to run your own father through, I suggest you lay down your weapons and greet him as a son should.”

“My father is dead.”

Jørgen clutched his heart as he amended the statement. “Your father left when you were but a lad of four. And you would be twenty and seven now. Your brother, Ulfr, would be twenty and five. Is he there with you?”

Silence followed, save for the blustery wind that howled in their ears. Jørgen’s desperation to convince his eldest son of his identity seemed to climb to immeasurable heights. Like a list, he spouted things only a father and husband would know.

“Your mother’s name is Gunnhildr and she has a crooked finger on her right hand because she punched the horse that nearly toppled you when you were two and told me not so it could be splinted. Ulfr has a scar under his left eye where you struck him with the wooden sword your uncle fashioned for you on your birthday. A sennight before I left, I strung bows for you and your brother, asking you both to protect your mother in my absence. I suspect they are nocked with arrows pointed at my weary heart as we speak, but please know not a day has gone by that I have not thought of the family I left behind.” Jørgen kicked his leg over the horse’s neck and slid out of the saddle, throwing aside his weapon and shield. Divested of arms, he outstretched his hands. “Please come forward and let me see the fine young men you have grown into. Please…I need to see you. Do not send me away, I beg you. I have come home.” His voice cracked as he repeated his last words. “Your father has come home.”

Out of the forest and through the gray mist, rode a tall, strapping lad with broad shoulders and stout legs on a black destrier. In his grasp, a longbow held careful aim on Jørgen’s heart. At his hip was a broadsword and a multitude of daggers sheathed along his belt. Donned in a wolf-skin cloak and knee-high fur-lined boots, he was not a man to be underestimated—a warrior that would make any father proud.

The young man circled Jørgen on the horse, its hooves stomping into the ground as he gawked, his eyes guarded and menacing. From behind him, another strode out on horseback, younger in age but no less daunting. Like his brother, he employed a tactic of intimidation as he approached, his stare affixed to the father they thought dead.

Gustaf held his position, his gaze juggling between Jørgen and the two warriors who surrounded them, their weapons still drawn for the kill. The emotion that befell Jørgen consumed him. Twenty-three years worth of pent-up pain, elation, and relief washed over him. Silently, his shoulders shook as if he was caught in a fit of laughter, but Gustaf knew better. He was on the verge of breaking down, his knees buckling at the sight of his two brave sons before him, all grown-up into full-fledged, fearless champions.

All at once, Jørgen’s legs gave out and he dropped to his knees, sobbing. The two men lowered their weapons and dismounted, running to his aid. With both of them at either side, they helped him to his feet.

“Is it really you, Father?” Ketill asked, studying Jørgen’s face for a sign of familiarity.

Tears of joy ran down Jørgen’s cheeks as he felt the touch of his own flesh and blood and looked into the pairs of eyes akin to his own. There was no denying he sired the two handsome lads at his side. “Of course ‘tis I. Look at me.” He grabbed each of his sons’ nape and pulled them into a firm hug. “Look at how you have grown! Odin’s blood, your mother feeds you well.”

Hearty embraces were traded over gales of blissful laughter. It was a beautiful sound to hear mature men rejoice, for it wasn’t a common occurrence amongst Gustaf’s tight band of mercenaries. He’d never seen Jørgen weep and he doubted he would ever see it again.

He sheathed his sword and glanced at Æsa. She, too, fell prey to the emotional scene. Her bottom lip quivered and twice the amount of tears fell from her eyes as she witnessed the long-awaited reunion between father and sons.

One by one, Gustaf’s men sheathed their weapons and dismounted to join in on the fun. Introductions were met with fervent, manly embraces as they reacquainted themselves with the two warriors they once knew as rowdy boys—everyone, save for Øyven who had come into the group at a later date. He remained on his horse, respectfully quiet and reserved.

“And this is,” Jørgen commenced, holding out his upturned hand in Gustaf’s direction, “the great son of Rælik. Gustaf, my most loyal friend and lord.”

Gustaf could barely look them in the eye, for he was the very reason they’d been separated from their father for nigh a quarter of a century. Guilt encouraged his next words. “Forgive me for keeping your father away so long. ’Twas not my intention to—”

Ketill and Ulfr dropped to their knees before him and hung their heads in humble gratitude. “You have brought our father back from the dead. We are indebted to you, my lord.”

Gustaf gazed upon the subservient lads at his feet. Their blind servitude reminded him of the unconditional fealty Jørgen had provided him all these years and he was moved by their gesture. “On your feet, lads.”

The two looked to their father before righting themselves. Gustaf bowed his head and stood before Jørgen. “I should be kneeling before you, my friend. Your sacrifice goes beyond what any man should be expected to offer.” He averted his eyes toward Ketill and Ulfr. “If you serve anyone, it should be your father. Not I.”

Jørgen marched forward and stood eye to eye with him. “I have no regrets, m’lord. I would serve you again if necessary.”

Gustaf had no doubts. But Jørgen’s days of being without his loved ones were over and it gave him greater pleasure to know they could celebrate this occasion together. He flung his arm around his friend’s shoulder and jerked him into a stroll toward the forest. “If you insist upon serving me, Jørgen, a large drinking horn full of mead would suit me just fine.”

A roar of vigorous shouts erupted as every man came to the same consensus.

“What are we waiting for, men?” Jørgen announced, his fist in the air. “Let us go home.”

Snorri mounted before all the others and yanked his horse to rise up on its hind legs. “May the mead run aplenty and the women run amok!”

Chapter Twenty-One

Æsa should have felt as cheerful as the rest. It was a grand day to be among those who had finally made it home to their families and friends. The joyful noise of everyone’s surprise carried like squawking seagulls throughout the valley. Not one villager could contain themselves as they came bustling out of their longhouses. Squeals of surprise rang out as some came to realize their husbands, brothers, and fathers were alive. At times, their feet could not carry them fast enough as they bolted into the arms of the returned warriors.

She understood well the elation that swelled in their hearts, for not long ago she’d felt the same upon Gustaf’s homecoming. She remembered how she nearly tripped on her own two feet to get to him and how his strong embrace nearly crushed her ribs as he swung her around.

This was a special day for all, yet her heart didn’t soar with the others. Her spirits were weighted down by Gustaf’s cold rejection and his aloof behavior. He remained standoffish, even as the people came and welcomed him on his arrival. To add to her suffering, he placed the horse between them, a purposeful move to emphasize his position on the matter of their heated discussion. He seemed to do everything in his power to keep a safe distance from her as if she’d inflict severe pain on his body should he get too close. It was difficult for her to bear, knowing he had no desire to be near her. He might as well have run his dagger through her heart, for it would’ve been less painful.

Hot tears stung her eyes again, but she refused let them fall. Before, they were easy to disguise as Jørgen and his sons had come together. She recalled the quick glance Gustaf had given her and how it seemed to register with him. She knew she’d fooled him into thinking it was because of the moment, but he wouldn’t be so daft as to be duped again.