Black Monastery (23 page)

But a wall wasn’t going to stop the spirit; only leaving would keep them safe.

With the wall in place, the men began to search for suitable trees to cut down and shape to fix
Sea Eel
. What Asgrim really needed were oak trees, but he found none. Instead, this island held stunted and gnarled mimosa trees, which were a poor substitute for oak. They cut down the best they could find. Then, using broad axes, they split the trunks into long, thin planks that they attached to
Sea Eel
’s keel, replacing the ones the spirit had destroyed. They took several days to get the strakes right, particularly because of the poor wood, but on the fourth day, Asgrim stepped back and ran his fingers over the repaired hull. It was complete shit, but it would do until they found better wood elsewhere. They re-attached the mast the best they could, with jury-rigged pulleys and tremendous difficulty—and only after having to cut off a good five feet of its length in order to fit it back into the mast fish. The men pounded moss into the cracks between the strakes, and the crack of wood on wood resonated along the beach.

“Ass-damned wood,” said one of the men standing beside Asgrim with a wooden mallet in his hand.

Asgrim noted that he was one of the young lads, a boy of about sixteen named Erp.

No, he thought. That’s not fair. Erp had been in two battles so far, losing one and winning the other. He had watched his friends endure days of torture. He may have looked young, but he had become a man.

“Aye,” answered Asgrim, “but it’ll keep the sea water out until we can put ashore somewhere else, somewhere we can lay up for the winter and fix her right.”

“Hedeby?”

Asgrim gripped Erp’s elbow, squeezed it, and smiled. “No. We’re not going home yet. But I have friends in Trondheim, among the Norse. Good friends, old shield mates. They’ll welcome us. We can winter there.”

“Trondheim,” the young man repeated, sounding out the word, as if it was a strange foreign land, and not just a day’s sailing to the north of Denmark.

Asgrim slapped him on the back. “There’s women in Trondheim, too, you know. You can plow them all day long. Then drink yourself stupid at night.”

Erp grinned, his face turning red. Some of the other men yelled out insults, accusing Erp of being a virgin. The young man opened his mouth to reply, but then the smile on his face vanished, and his eyes narrowed as he stared out to sea.

Turning, Asgrim followed his gaze and saw the sails of another vessel—one heading for their beach.

It was a Saracen ship that Asgrim had seen before. The men from that ship had sent Asgrim to this damned island of death on the false promise of plunder. His brother was dead because of those men.

He snorted as a smile spread across his ruined face. His luck
was
changing.

Sixteen

The shoreline,

August 13, 799,

Sunset

Asgrim watched as the Saracen vessel dropped anchor and lowered a small launch into the waves. The ship was a trading vessel, the kind the Saracens called a
dhow,
and was manned by a crew of about twenty men. It was bigger than
Sea Eel
, perhaps twenty
ells
long, and boasted two large brightly colored square sails. One by one, a small group of Saracens climbed down into the small, bobbing launch. Restless, he reached over his shoulder and pulled
Heart-Ripper
several fingers’ length from the sealskin scabbard, and then shoved it back in.

The Saracens didn’t pose any real threat; there weren’t enough of them to challenge his men—especially the eight men on the tiny launch that began to make its way to the shore. Just the same, Asgrim noted four of the men onboard the little boat wore glittering chain mail armor and carried large curved swords in scabbards; two of the others—the ones pulling the oars—were clearly sailors, barefoot and bare chested, wearing large pantaloons. The last two Saracens were richly garbed in brilliantly colorful, voluminous robes. One was a tall thin man with a nose that would have embarrassed a hawk. The other was the same fat, smug Saracen trader who had sent Asgrim on this raid that had cost him his brother and most of his men. Asgrim clenched his hands into fists.

He waited on the sand in front of the barricade around
Sea Eel
. His men waited just behind him, anxious for a fight. Harald Skull-Splitter, wearing his new Frankish mail coat, with his round shield in hand, stood just beside Asgrim.

“This Saracen prick lied to us,” said Harald bitterly.

“Aye,” answered Asgrim, his gaze locked on the launch.

The hull of the boat scraped against the sand of the beach, and the two sailors leapt out, hauling the boat ashore. The skin of the bare-chested sailors was dark brown, like the trunk of a tree. The four guards, moving like a single unit, wordlessly formed a screen in front of the boat. Asgrim had never seen armor like these men wore, and despite his anger, he was impressed. On top of their magnificent scale-armor coats, each man wore round plates of solid steel that protected their chests and shoulders. The scale armor beneath had been burnished, and the sunlight glittered off each piece. On their left arms, they carried small round shields made entirely of steel, each of which was conical, rising to a point in its center and bearing intricate Saracen markings. These men casually wore an earl’s ransom.

“You give the word, Captain,” said Harald, “and we’ll hit ’em right now, take their worm-eaten ship and everything in it.”

It was tempting, but Asgrim shook his head. “No. I want to hear what he has to say first. After that… well, we’ll see about after.”

From beneath their conical steel helms, the Saracen warriors eyed the Danes. Asgrim could see the concern in their dark eyes. And they were right to be worried. They were outnumbered six to one by the Danes, who blamed them for their presence on this damned island. But Asgrim also noted that they weren’t terrified. He was a good judge of men, and these ones would fight. These men had confidence to spare.

Just how good did they think they were?

One of the sailors extended a hand, helping the fat Saracen from the launch. The man’s heavy robes were trimmed with sparkling thread. He wore a bright-green turban held in place by a silver band. Such clothing was utterly unsuitable for life at sea. Had he fallen overboard, he would have sunk like a stone. If the Saracen had dressed to impress Asgrim, he needn’t have bothered. The wind carried a trace of perfume, and Asgrim shook his head.

The Saracen trader smoothed his robes and then approached, his dark eyes wary, with his guards on either side. The other man, who was likely the trader’s aide, followed just behind him. They halted in front of Asgrim and his men. Harald snorted and spat on the sand. Just for a moment, the eyes of one of the guards narrowed. The Saracen trader paused, his mouth open. Then he smiled broadly, extended his hand, palm to the ground, putting the other across his chest, and bowed deeply.

“Greetings once again, noble Captain Asgrim, and may Allah’s blessings be upon you,” he said in perfect Danish.

“Who?” Asgrim asked, although he understood perfectly that the man referred to his one god.

The Saracen’s eyes widened. “Great and merciful God,” he replied.

“Which one?” asked Harald. The Danes laughed.

They would like to kill these men, Asgrim knew. So would he.

The Saracen continued, ignoring Harald’s insult. “There is only one God, and Mohammad is his servant. And I,
Abid al-Rahman Sayf al-Dawla
, remain
you
r humble servant, Captain Asgrim. May God’s Peace be upon you.

“Peace?” Asgrim smiled, then turned and indicated his men clustered around him. “Captain… Abid? You may have noticed I have far fewer men than the last time we met—by more than half.” Asgrim paused, breathed deeply, and then continued. “My own brother is dead, driven mad first by the spirit of this island. An island
you
sent us to with the promise of silver—a promise that has proven false.”

The Saracen’s eyes widened, and he glanced quickly at the other robed man beside him. “The spirit is loose?”

Asgrim snorted, locked eyes with the Saracen, and nodded. “Aye, the spirit is loose. This island is cursed. There was no silver at that damned black monastery, and you, Abid,
you
lied to me, tricked me into coming here. Tell me now why I shouldn’t cut your lying head from your fat shoulders.”

The man took an involuntary step back before stopping himself. His guards shifted their stance slightly, and their hands drifted closer to the hilts of their weapons.

“Captain Asgrim,” said the Saracen, “please, I wish to talk, to… explain important issues, grave matters.”

“
Grave
matters?” repeated Asgrim. “Truer words have never been spoken.”

Asgrim felt his temper rise and knew he was moments from a killing rage.

Sweat glistened on the man’s face, and he licked his lower lip before placing a hand over his heart. “Please, Captain, my most sincere apologies for your loss, but… but there
is
silver. There
is
treasure to be had, and you may have it all.”

Asgrim exhaled. “
More
treasure, Captain Abid?”

The Saracen pointed to his
dhow
behind him. “On my own vessel, in a chest. And I will give it all to you and gladly, a thousand silver coins, from the treasury of the
Serkland Caliphate
itself.”

A thousand silver coins? That amount was ten times the cost of his wergild… with enough left over to buy and equip five more longships. On the other hand, this fat Saracen whoreson had already lied to him once.

Asgrim’s glance darted to the
dhow
. If he killed these men, he would never get to the ship before it pulled anchor and sailed away, and although
Sea Eel
was almost sea-worthy, she wasn’t yet ready to chase down prey.

Wearing what he knew had to be a fake-looking smile, Asgrim extended a hand toward his camp on the other side of the barricade. “Well, then, Captain Abid, perhaps we
do
have matters to discuss.”

* * *

Asgrim sat on a stump of wood across the fire from Abid, who sat on a folding stool one of his sailors had set out for him. Apparently, the man didn’t want to get his ass dirty. The other Saracen, the thin one with the beaked nose, sat on another folding stool just beside Abid. Harald sat on the sand next to Asgrim, drinking beer and belching. Asgrim sipped from his own beer mug and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He had offered the Saracens beer, but Abid had politely refused and the beak-nosed one had looked as if Asgrim had offered him a plate of steaming offal, which was fine, because he really didn’t want to share his beer with them, anyhow.

The fire cracked and spit, casting errant sparks. Asgrim smiled, secretly hoping one might burn a hole through the Saracens’ expensive robes. Abid’s guards sat in a tight group about ten paces away, warily eyeing both Asgrim and the other Danes.

They were right to be uncomfortable, thought Asgrim. But he had given them the safety of his camp. Nothing would happen to them—for the time being.

Asgrim cocked his head to the side and considered the Saracen trader. The other man smiled obsequiously in return.

Asgrim used his beer mug to point toward Big Nose. “Who’s he, then?”

Abid’s eyes flicked to the other man. “My aide,
Yusuf ibn Ayyub.”

“Yusuf,” repeated Asgrim, inclining his head and then pointing to Harald. “My
new
first mate, Harald Skull-Splitter.”

Yusuf met Asgrim’s eye, then he nodded sourly, looking as if he was pained to be in Asgrim’s presence. This one made no attempt to befriend him, nor did he wear the false charm of a merchant. He was also no sailor; that was clear. So what was he, then, and why was he here?

“Okay, then,” said Asgrim. “We’ve established the pleasantries. So tell me about the silver.”

Abid smiled, exposing bright-white teeth. Several small golden beads hung from the ends of his immaculately trimmed beard. “Captain Asgrim, I most humbly apologize once again for the death of your men. Please believe, we had no idea the spirit was loose. I thought you’d only have to face the black monks, poor pathetic opponents.”

“
And
the Frankish soldiers.”

Abid paused. “Of course, those unworthies, as well, but I
did
warn you of them. I even described their fort.”

“Aye,” said Asgrim. “You did. Of course, those soldiers were already dead when we arrived, slaughtered by the evil spirit loose on this cursed island.”

“Yes, the spirit.” Abid glanced at Yusuf. An unspoken message passed between the two Saracens. “I am most sorry, but we had no way of knowing the damned monks had released the spirit. The fools!”

“You mean the
djinn
, do you not?” asked Asgrim, carefully watching his reaction.

Abid paused, clearly startled. “You know what it is? How?”

So it wasn’t just a dream. The dead
had
spoken to him.

Yusuf leaned forward and spoke softly in the Saracen tongue. Abid answered quickly, curtly. Yusuf’s eyes flickered to Asgrim.

“Speak words we can all understand, eastern man,” Harald snapped.

Yusuf sat back again, glaring at Harald, but Abid quickly smiled, holding out his hand. “Yes, yes, of course. We do not mean to be rude. Sometimes, we forget ourselves. My friend is not as accustomed to your Danish tongue as I am.”

“Speak of this
djinn
,” said Asgrim. “This is an eastern spirit, yes?”

“It is so,” answered Abid. “But it is far more than just a spirit, far more…”

“We’ve seen
that
,” spat Harald.

“This
djinn
drove the black monks crazy,” Asgrim said. “They tortured and murdered one another.” Asgrim leaned forward and stared into Abid’s eyes. “Understand this, Saracen, I’m a hard man, but even I wouldn’t do the things those monks did. No sane man would. By all the gods, what is this thing?”