The Temperate Warrior (27 page)

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A sennight later, Ásmundr burst through the door again, his eyes narrow slits, his stance threatening. The light of the morning sun reflected off the bright white snow behind him, piercing her tired eyes. A gust of cold air filled the already drafty room.

She had difficulty sitting up. Her body was stiff from lying on a hard floor for so long and her energy depleted from her constant morning sickness. Whatever scraps of food Ásmundr had given her on occasion, when he felt generous, only came back up hours later. For her baby, she tried to keep some semblance of nourishment down, but the nausea was so great at times, she’d get sick at just the thought of drinking water.

Ásmundr stalked toward her and kicked the emesis pot across the room. “On your feet, whore. I can wait no more.”

With all her might, Æsa labored to erect herself from the floor, but her tumbling stomach protested. Ásmundr snatched a wad of her hair and jerked her upright.

“Enough of this, Æsa. You are not ill.”

She wanted to argue differently, but thought better. Nothing she could say would make him believe. Her reprieve, if one could call it that, was over.

He dragged her by the hair out the door, the concerned faces of his three men greeting her with guarded stares.

“My lord, she does not look well.”

“Shut up, Grimr! She is fine. She is but playing us.” Fist still buried in her hair, he led her around the dilapidated shack and shoved her toward the wintry blue water of the strait. “See to your ablutions and make it quick.”

She trudged through the ankle-high snow, the frigid air biting into her skin. She pulled her bear cloak tighter around her and watched her breath emit like fog. The serenity of the snow-covered landscape fortified by towering jagged mountains taunted her. The clear cerulean channel fenced her in like a frigid watery palisade. There was no escape.

Conceding her fate had been sealed and the odds of surviving Ásmundr’s wrath were but zero, she crouched at the water’s edge and offered up one final prayer to Odin. She hoped her Almighty could hear her, for she feared even the gods would not set foot in this tundra-cursed hell.

As her warm tears began to freeze upon her cheeks, she heard the shrill cry of a bird. Lazily, she gazed up into the sky and saw the outspread wings of a hovering falcon, gracefully circling above her. It was a strange and beautiful sight to see a lone bird venture to such a harsh place. No animal in its right mind would migrate north. Food was too scarce and buried in the snow.

For a moment, she forgot all about Ásmundr and continued to watch the path of the gliding fowl. She shadowed her brow with her hand, gazing into the brilliant sky at the silhouetted bird. To her surprise, it dove toward her.

She fell back on her haunches as the falcon flapped and fluttered about wildly. It squawked and beat its wings, trying to perch. With wide eyes, she tentatively held out her hand and offered her arm. The brown and black patterned falcon landed and settled itself on her shoulder.

Æsa knew this falcon, but couldn’t believe her eyes. Tied around the bird’s skinny leg was a scrap of white embroidered fabric.

Her stitched and sewn cloth.

Her gift to Gustaf.

Quickly, before Ásmundr noticed, she untied the material and stuffed it in her sleeve. She gazed around, but saw no one. No one but Ásmundr and his three brutes.

Her heart leapt in her chest, and her body trembled uncontrollably. Had Gustaf’s men come to save her? Better yet, had Gustaf cheated death and come to seek his vengeance?

She wanted to scream his name, call out to him and hear his blessed gruff voice in her ears. But she held her tongue.

As she encouraged the falcon to take flight, the thunderous beat of horses’ hooves rumbled over the frozen land beneath her. Her breath caught in her lungs upon seeing a swarm of mounted
hirdmen
racing down the hill. Although helmeted and completely draped with wolf-skin cloaks, their fierce determination distinguished them as her gallant rescuers.

Ásmundr and his men had already begun to scramble. Out of the ten daunting warriors, one drew his bow and took careful aim. The arrow sliced through the air and sunk deep into Grimr’s shoulder, propelling him on his backside.

“Stand your ground!” Ásmundr bellowed, unsheathing his sword. But like the coward he was, he deserted his men and ran toward Æsa.

She gathered her skirts and tried to forge through the snow, but his legs proved to be faster and stronger. Grabbing her around the waist, he dragged her flailing body back toward the shelter of the shack.

“Get inside!” he demanded of Grimr.

Æsa wailed and screamed. She fought to break free of Ásmundr’s hold, but he was able to haul her energy-deprived body to the door. Another arrow marked for his head careened into the outside wall of the house, stopping him in his tracks. He ducked below it and shuffled through the door, shielding himself with Æsa’s body. Grimr followed, ordering the last two men to hold their positions, and slammed the door behind him.

Struck with fear, Æsa listened to the sounds on the other side. Shouts of ballistic warriors and neighing horses erupted. The clashing of iron resounded through the weathered wood as if it were but sheer linen separating them from the gruesome scene outside. Outnumbered five to one, their struggle to defend Ásmundr did not last long. The harrowing scream of dying men was the last thing Æsa heard before Ásmundr jerked her back to the far wall and rammed his knife up under her chin.

“You want to live, Æsa? Then call off Gustaf’s men!”

Chapter Thirty

Gustaf stared at the two worthless men who lay dead at his feet. He almost pitied them for their blind servitude to such a selfish bastard. Essentially, Ásmundr had left them to die, for there was no way a pair of measly armed men could be triumphant over ten mounted warriors with shields, swords, and bows.

The small victory felt good on his vengeful heart, but it was the success of killing Ásmundr he longed to attain. Through the eyeholes of his helmet, he glowered at the rickety door before him. He dreaded knowing what had gone on between Æsa and Ásmundr in this pitiful shanty, but gladly used his suspicions as fuel to his fire.

As he stood brooding, his blood coursed through his veins and his pulse raged in his ears. All the pain he’d felt from his injuries vanished. Adrenaline had gushed into his blood stream with the onset of their charge and numbed him from head to toe. Even now, as he gathered his wits and settled his hammering heart, he felt nothing but sheer fury. His hands shook with it.

In silence, he gestured toward the two dead and motioned for them to be dragged away. Snorri and Ketill obliged, but Jørgen grabbed hold of Gustaf’s arm before he prepared to kick open the door.

Keeping his voice low, Jørgen offered his services. “Let me do this.”

Gustaf shook his head, not wanting to spoil the surprise he had planned for Ásmundr.

“You are injured.”

“Jørgen?” Æsa’s shaky voice emitted from inside. “Is that you?”

Gustaf heart jumped in his throat and he nodded toward Jørgen, permitting him to answer.

“Aye, Æsa, ‘tis me. We have come for you.”

“Nay!” she shouted in desperation. “Please, do not come in here. Ásmundr promises to kill me if you do.”

Her frightened voice sent chills down Gustaf’s spine. He knew Ásmundr meant what he said.

With a simple look, Gustaf encouraged Jørgen to keep her talking, while he signaled the others to surround the place. Each man did as he was bid, working together like practiced warriors who knew how to secure a stronghold.

“Æsa, I am coming—”

“Nay, Jørgen, nay! Please do as he says! He has a knife…and he will slit my throat, he will, he will! Please!”

Gustaf could stand it no more. He affirmed his grip on his sword and kicked open the door. It crashed and splintered to pieces as he stepped inside.

“Watch out!” Æsa cried, trying to warn him of Grimr who lurked in the shadows.

Gustaf took a blow to the head and fell to his knees, the sound of Grimr’s sword echoing like a loud clang inside his helmet. He shook it off and tackled the man around his knees. The two tumbled to the floor, throwing punches in a wild frenzy, but Gustaf soon gained the upper hand. He rolled on top and sent a solid fist straight into the man’s nose.

Blood spewed as Grimr fought to defend himself.

In a battle to regain their swords, they sprawled across the floor and grappled to recover their weapons before the other. They jumped to their feet and irons clashed in a frantic effort to hack their opponent in two. Gustaf dodged a decapitating blow and spun, slicing Grimr’s thigh wide open.

The man collapsed and writhed in pain. Æsa’s cry of terror pierced Gustaf’s ears, but he paid no heed. He double fisted his sword above his head and delivered the fatal thrust through Grimr’s heart.

Swiveling his head, he set his sights on Ásmundr who had already begun to make threats upon Æsa. He watched as the dagger inched closer under her jaw, the blade depressing her delicate ivory skin.

“Jørgen,” Ásmundr warned, adjusting his body behind Æsa’s. “Think about what you are doing. One move in my direction and I will spill her blood!”

Gustaf scoffed inside, enjoying that Ásmundr had no idea who he was talking to. Like a fool, he believed him to be Jørgen and that Gustaf was dead and gone from this earth.

“I mean what I say, Jørgen. Put your sword down!”

“I have not a sword,” Jørgen interrupted from the open doorway, his bow nocked and drawn. Without hesitation, he fired his bow and an arrow pierced Ásmundr’s shoulder left exposed with holding the dagger at Æsa’s throat.

Ásmundr cried out and staggered backward, his blade no longer a threat. Æsa fell to the floor in a heap, scrambling to get away from him.

Gustaf rushed to her aid and gathered her to her feet. “Get her out of here,” he commanded to Jørgen.

Upon hearing his voice, Æsa’s eyes widened in recognition. Uncontrollable joy mixed with untamed fear laced her face as she stared in disbelief.

“Go,” he nodded in reassurance.

As soon as Æsa was safely outside, Gustaf approached his foe. The man actually had the audacity to unsheathe his sword with an inept left hand and threaten him.

Gustaf could see that in his panicked state he was still wondering who was behind the helmet. With one swipe of his sword, he disarmed Ásmundr and forced him to his knees. Holding the tip of his blade at Ásmundr’s sternum, he removed his helmet and tossed it aside.

“It cannot be,” Ásmundr murmured in utter bewilderment. “But how? Grimr killed you.”

Gustaf glanced back at Grimr’s dead body. It was apparent Ásmundr, still in shock, was clueless to the obvious. “As you can see, Grimr tried—twice—and failed.”

“Wait!” Ásmundr spat forth as soon as Gustaf readied his sword for the final plunge. “The silver! I will let you have it. It can all be yours.”

Gustaf scoffed, appalled that even as the bastard looked death in the eye, he thought he could barter his way out with his father’s blood money. Gustaf refused to give this eel scum the satisfaction of a reply. Instead, he adjusted his hands on the hilt.

The man trembled as he realized Gustaf’s intent. Perspiration broke out above his brow and his breaths came in deep, sporadic huffs. “Surely, there is some mercy left in your miserable soul. A fragment of temperance, perhaps?”

Gustaf froze upon the word choice. His mind swarmed with images of Æsa stroking his temple, kissing his lips, and whispering her pet name in his ears. The sound of her sweet voice melted the tension from his rigid body…

But his visions soon turned heinous. Her cries of pain, her screams of terror all reminded him of what this bastard had done to her. What he’d done to him…all so he could get his greedy hands on a stash of silver which paid for his father’s murder.

He looked Ásmundr in the eye, his temper flaring as an inferno raged inside him. Thoughts of his injuries incurred by this man, the nightmare to which he subjected Æsa, and the unborn child he could have terminated, all came to the surface. “If I have any temperance left, know ‘tis only set aside for those who deserve it.” And with one final thrust, Gustaf brought an end to his torment.

Ásmundr’s body flinched with the sinking of the broad blade spearing through his chest. Bones snapped and blood gushed from his mouth. Justice had been served.

Gustaf placed his booted foot upon Ásmundr’s lifeless corpse and withdrew his weapon, closing his eyes to the wicked image in his head.

“Gustaf!” Æsa called from behind him.

Slowly, he looked at her. Her clothes were tattered and torn. Her face was ashen in color, highlighting an ugly bruise on her left eye. Her lips were chapped and her hair fell around her shoulders in a tangled, matted mess. Despite the unsightliness of her appearance, Gustaf could not help thinking she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She was alive and that was all that mattered.

He ran to her and swept her up in his arms. He buried his face in her nape and held her as close as he could without hurting her or the child within her womb. During his long journey to find her, he’d feared he would not be blessed with this moment. That he might be too late to save his dearest Æsa. Breathing her in and feeling her tight embrace around his neck, proved that he’d won the day.