The Temperate Warrior (25 page)

She recalled how shameful she’d felt, kissing Ásmundr in such an intimate manner in front of Gustaf. The grotesque thickness and taste of his stale tongue and lips had turned her stomach. It sickened her even now. All she had to do was keep her end of the bargain and all would be better. How she’d escape Ásmundr and get back to Gustaf was another matter. Hopefully, Gustaf would see through her ruse and come to save her, bringing his unmerciful wrath with him.

She never liked the concept of vengeance, even if it was for a just cause, but with Ásmundr, she’d enjoy watching him fall. In fact, she’d gone so far as to plot his death by her own hand. Maybe whilst he slept…

“On your feet, Æsa,” Ásmundr commanded from behind her. “Grimr and the men approach and we need to move onward.”

Æsa purposefully ignored him. It might bring her nothing but pain, but she didn’t care. She would not give him the satisfaction of thinking he could demand her to jump and she’d ask how high. He’d not broken her yet.

She heard her name on his lips again and pretended not to hear.

“I said…” Ásmundr growled, snagging a fistful of hair and lugging her upright. “On. Your. Feet!”

Æsa refused to scream. Instead, she laughed at him.

“What is so amusing,
thrall
?”

“Gustaf will kill you,” she said with a sneer. “He will hunt you down and kill you with a vengeance you have yet to see possible from one man. I almost pity you.”

It was Ásmundr’s turn to laugh. “Pity me not. ’Twould be a waste of your energy for as I see it, a corpse does not have the luxury of vengeance.” A cold flash of delight registered in his heartless eyes before he tightened his fist in her hair and dragged her toward his horse.

“What are you saying?” Æsa snapped, grasping his hand.

He shoved her against the animal’s flank and ripped her arm behind her back, crushing her until she submitted to the awkward bend of her elbow. His mouth accosted her ear. “A dead man can do naught to save you. The only benefit he leaves behind is the food his rotting corpse will bring to the worms of the ground. Unless of course, his men choose to give him a king’s funeral where he would then be food for the fishes.”

Æsa froze. Her body trembled at the vulgar words Ásmundr delivered with cold, hard contempt. “Gustaf is dead? You killed him?”

Ásmundr released her. “Not I, for I gave you my word I would not. Grimr, on the other hand, does not make a habit of keeping bargains with whores. What can I say? He is quite the ruthless bastard.”

Æsa couldn’t contain her fury. She lashed out at Ásmundr, throwing fists, trying to gouge out his eyes, but he was prepared for her hatred and vehemence. He caught her wrists and held her claws at bay, laughing in spite of her agony.

“I hate you!”

“I know, love. But you will learn to tolerate me lest I resign to settling my own score with you sooner. Fortunately for you, we race against time and my desire to find the silver outweighs my desire to bend you over and slake my lust.”

“You have made the gravest of mistakes, Ásmundr, for I will not lead you anywhere! I will take the location of your father’s silver to my grave, this I swear!”

“You will not.”

“I will!” Æsa bellowed for all she was worth, tears streaming from her eyes. “You will have to torture me, and even then, ’twill not escape my lips!”

Ásmundr scowled and reared his fist back, walloping her with a punch that knocked her out cold and sent her crashing to the ground at his feet. Grimr and the men rode up just in time to see Ásmundr shaking his smarting hand.

“You waited until now to tell her?” Grimr asked, putting two and two together.

“I could not be certain of his demise until you returned. For all I knew, Gustaf could’ve killed you after I left.”

“I am glad to know you maintain such confidence in me.”

Ásmundr grinned at Grimr’s sarcasm and shook his head as he regarded the foolish woman at his feet. “Help me get the bitch on the horse. We have a long journey ahead of us.”

“Every jaunt with you is long, m’lord,” Grimr said dismounting.

Ásmundr watched as Grimr bent and hoisted Æsa over his shoulder with ease. “Be thankful I resolved the noise issue.” He shook his hand once more as the ache began to settle in.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

One month later

Øyven opened his heavy, sluggish eyes to the glaring morning sun and stretched his aching back from the horrible position he’d slept in on the stoop in front of Halldora’s hut. Like so many nights, he’d kept a vigil at the door, eager for the day when Gustaf would open his eyes and speak sensibly.

For weeks, Gustaf had suffered through a debilitating fever that drenched his body in sweat and convulsed his muscles with chills. If he wasn’t fighting that, he was talking out of his head. Though Halldora had made every effort to keep nourishment in his body, he’d often grown combatant, struggling against anyone who aimed to touch him.

If anything had proved to be a good sign, it was Gustaf’s readiness to engage in a brawl. Halldora had been able to get food and water in his system on a regular basis, but it never went without a struggle. Eventually, the fever had subsided, but so had the delirium. Without Gustaf battling to live, he’d fallen into a deep sleep. The fight in Gustaf had slowly dissipated and the last few days the warrior barely moved.

Everyone in the settlement had prayed for their fallen hero, that soon he’d wake from his nightmare. But every dawn had brought Øyven disappointment and it would seem this daybreak was no different.

As he stood to regain the life in his legs, he was struck by the distant sound of hammering. Curiosity overtook him and he padded slothfully in the direction of the lakeshore.

He rubbed his eyes upon seeing the men of the village working in collective harmony. Some straddled logs, ripping bark and hand hewing the timbers. Others cut the wood into planks, while most were constructing what looked like the beginnings of a hull for a longship.

Finding Jørgen first, Øyven made his way down to the meadow to inquire about the sudden fuss over a ship. “Where are we headed? I was not told we were going on a journey.”

Jørgen regarded him carefully, his eyes drifting the longer he hesitated to speak. “‘Tis not for us that we build the vessel. ’Tis for Gustaf’s journey to Valhalla—”

Øyven felt his heart stop. He looked back toward Halldora’s hut then glared at Jørgen. “Has he…” He could not bring himself to ask.

Jørgen clasped his shoulder. “Soon, Øyven. ’Twill be soon.”

He shoved Jørgen’s hand away. “Nay! You are wrong!”

The hammering and sawing of wood slowly ceased and every eye turned to stare. It was obvious to Øyven that everyone worried he’d react this way and purposefully kept the task of building Gustaf’s funeral ship from him.

Snorri laid down his tools and came near. “Øyven, ’tis time to let go. Many fortnights have come and gone. With each day, his heart beats slower.”

“Nay.”

“Gustaf is giving up—”

“Nay,
you
are giving up!” Øyven shouted. “You are all giving up! If Gustaf knew you were doing this, he would not stand for it. He would wake up and tell you all to go to Hel.”

Jørgen tried again to reason with Øyven, but he circumvented his attempts. Overcome with anger and resentment, he tore from the shoreline and ran as fast as he could to where Gustaf slept. Unconcerned by the ruckus he made as he burst through the old woman’s door, he locked eyes on Halldora, who was standing over the bedside performing a sacred ritual with incense and lifted prayers to Odin. She chanted as she swayed:

Rouse your chosen champion…Bid him to rise up and enter into your Valhalla.

Bid the Valkyries to proffer wine, for a prince is about to come.

Øyven knocked the bowl of incense from her grasp and gripped both her arms, ushering her away from Gustaf’s body. “Stop this! I demand you cease beckoning the gods to take him.” He pointed at his chieftain’s lifeless body. “He still breathes. His heart still beats. He is not yet gone from this world, and yet you summon Odin to carry him off. Why?”

Halldora looked into his woeful eyes, her voice barely a whisper. “I hear nothing from Gustaf. His spirit is gone. Only a body remains.”

“What do you mean you do not hear anything? Surely, he has not forgotten about what Ásmundr has done to him—that Æsa still remains in his clutches. She needs him!”

Halldora shook her head. “There is naught. No rage. No Æsa.”

“Remind him!” Øyven roared. “You said so yourself, he can hear us.”

“I have tried to talk to him but—”

“Ach! He does not need to hear your mindless dribble, woman. He needs to get angry! He needs to know his Æsa’s life is at stake should he do naught but die a
straw
death
!”

Spurred into desperation, Øyven rushed to Gustaf’s bedside and slapped him across the face. “Get up! Open your eyes and live!” He bent in haste and vigorously shook his chieftain. “Find your will to live, my lord!”

When Gustaf didn’t so much as move, Øyven took out the embroidered cloth he’d kept on his person and shoved it into Gustaf’s lax palm. “Feel it,” he demanded, squeezing the warrior’s fingers around it. “Grasp it and prove you can hear me. Come on, Gustaf! I know you can hear me!”

Gustaf’s fist contracted around the fabric and Halldora gasped. “Keep at it, Øyven. ’Tis working. He hears you!”

Øyven glanced down at the fist holding tight to the material and a frantic chuckle resounded from his chest. “Aye, Gustaf. Get mad. Get very mad.”

“Hit him again,” Halldora instructed.

Reluctantly, Øyven threw his fist down hard upon Gustaf’s chest. “Fight! Live!”

Halldora gasped again, her eyes wide with hope. “Ásmundr’s face flashed before Gustaf’s eyes. He relives the day. He sees Æsa crying.”

Øyven resorted to drastic measures and pushed his open palm against the blazing scar on his left shoulder. Gustaf flinched, but did not budge to prevent the assault on his injured body. Øyven didn’t let up. He put all his weight on the wound and growled as he tortured his chieftain with pain and anguish. “Feel that? Feel what Ásmundr has done to you? What do you think he will do to Æsa? Are you going to let it happen? Are you going to let him—”

Gustaf’s free hand thrust like a crushing vice under Øyven’s chin, squeezing him, choking him. His eyes, alight with fire and fury, bore into Øyven’s as if he were the enemy, as if he were Ásmundr himself.

Struggling to breathe, Øyven grasped at the surprisingly strong hand around his throat, trying to break free. “Gusta—”

Halldora cackled behind him, giving no aid to his predicament.

“A—little—help,” Øyven choked out.

Fortunately for him, Snorri burst through the door in time to see a disoriented Gustaf about to strangle Øyven to death. “My lord! Release him!” Snorri barreled through and wrestled his chieftain’s hand from Øyven’s neck until he was able to pry it free.

Gasping for air, Øyven dropped to the floor, his throat burning, his head pounding from the blood that strived to circulate in his veins. The commotion continued between Snorri and Gustaf on the boxbed above him, while he labored to draw air into his starved lungs. Halldora resumed laughing in the background and Snorri shouted in exasperation, despite the fact that Gustaf still fought like a rabid demon hound.

Hearing all the mayhem, Jørgen finally entered and helped secure Gustaf’s arms. With an able-bodied man on each side, they held him down and gained his attention.

“Gustaf! My lord! ‘Tis I, Jørgen! Settle yourself and look at me. We wish not to harm you. Stop your thrashing!”

Confused and half-dazed, Gustaf slowly recognized his own men and looked back and forth between the two, finding his bearings.

Winded, but relieved, Øyven gathered himself off the floor and stood to face his chieftain. Gustaf sat pinned on the boxbed, his breathing just as arduous as the two giants who held him captive. His ferocity had been subdued for the moment, but Øyven knew the full potential of his wrath was yet to be unleashed.

“Good to have you back, m’lord,” Øyven greeted, rubbing his tender throat.

Gustaf strained to sit upright and examined the three heinous scars marring his body. As he remembered the men who’d ambushed him, he clenched the embroidered cloth that lay in his palm. “If my brother, Dægan, was still alive to herald this moment, I know he would have something poetically moving to say. But where I lack in speech, I make up for in determination. Let my actions speak for themselves, for I will have my vengeance. As the last living son of Rælik, I will defend my father’s honor and uphold his noble name. Rally the men for council—my Æsa needs me.”

****

Æsa resorted to riding in silence on the back of one of the other men’s horses—anything to keep from having to ride with Ásmundr. Since she’d awaken from the punch he’d served her back in Lillehammer, she refused to be near him, threatening to walk alongside the horses if necessary. But given Ásmundr’s desire to beat the polar night that would soon drape his homeland of Tromsø in complete darkness, he allowed her this one request.