Black Monastery (25 page)

And how was it set loose upon the world in the first place? Asgrim wondered, but didn’t ask, suspecting there would be no true answer forthcoming.

“It skinned a number of the monks—and my men,” Asgrim said.

“It wears men.” Abid nodded sagely. “Either their living flesh or their dead skins. Sometimes, it simply skins them and then discards their remains. My father spoke of entire towns where every single inhabitant—man, woman, and child… even the animals—were skinned. I do not know why. Perhaps it simply
wishes
to do so. Perhaps such things amuse it. The ways of demons are hidden.”

They had traveled deep into the woods. Ahead, Steiner paused in mid-step, his hand raised in caution.

They waited in place, silent and unmoving. No birds chirped in the trees; no animals rustled in the foliage. All other living creatures seemed to have simply vanished. Once again, Asgrim felt the air grow cold and moist. Although they were inland, he smelled the sea. He was certain that if he closed his eyes, he would hear the waves, as he did when holding a horn to his ear. A tremor ran through his muscles, and his hand shook as he reached for
Heart-Ripper
and drew the weapon.

His eyes drifted to Abid’s, and he saw the fear in the other man’s face. The
Marid
was here, hidden among the trees, watching them.

It wanted them to know it was there, Asgrim realized. It could disguise its presence when it wished to do so, as it had on the beach when it spoke to Asgrim.

Asgrim snapped his fingers and hissed at the men to get their attention. Their eyes wide with fear, they looked his way, and Asgrim motioned to them to form a circle and face outward. The Saracen warrior Achmed instantly nodded his understanding and grabbed men by the shoulder, forcing them into position. Abid and Yusuf darted into the center. Yusuf removed a pouch he had been carrying and hurriedly rummaged through it. All of the men readied their weapons, all except Achmed, who did not even draw his large curved sword. Instead, the Saracen warrior simply removed the large shield from his back and stood with it at the ready, his hand on the black cloth that covered it.

The unnatural silence stretched on, and Asgrim fidgeted in place, squeezing the handle of his sword and staring into the trees around them. And then, as if it had simply materialized from nothing, he saw the
Marid.
It still wore the body of the Frankish knight Cuthbert and stood just next to a large twisted tree not twenty paces away. Pink leaves drifted through the air beside it, falling from the branches overhead.

Asgrim’s heart hammered beneath his chain mail so hard his chest hurt. Realizing he had been holding his breath, he exhaled forcibly and shook his shoulders, his vision locked on the spirit.

The knight looked worse than ever, more like a moving corpse than a living man. The pale skin stretched so tightly over its skull that it looked ready to pull loose. Even from where he stood, Asgrim smelled rotting flesh.

The
Marid
stepped closer and bowed deeply. “
Greetings, wolves of the northern seas, and you, as well, monkeys of the Caliphate
.” His voice throbbed with power, like a force that pushed at them.

Yusuf spoke for the first time, but Asgrim didn’t understand his eastern words. The tone, however, was clear, commanding—even if it did waver slightly.

The
Marid
smiled, exposing his white teeth, looking like a hungry predator.
“How rude, charlatan of the Caliphate. Your new northern friends don’t speak your foul tongue.”

Yusuf responded again, with more emphasis this time. The
Marid
laughed and shook his head. Achmed’s grip tightened on the cloth covering his shield.

What has he hidden beneath that?

The
Marid’s
eyes darted toward Achmed, and he scowled. “
Those tricks will not work. I will never serve your pathetic little kingdom again
.”

“Co—com… come forward, demon,” stuttered Abid. “We have God’s protection. We do not fear you.”

“
Yes you
do
, fool. And you are wise to do so. Your God isn’t here. But I have no time for fools like you. I am here for the northman, the wolf of the sea.”

The
Marid’s
gaze turned to Asgrim, who stepped back, weak in his knees.

Be a man, damn you!

He forced himself forward again and slammed
Heart-Ripper
against the metal boss of his shield. The resounding clang rang out throughout the trees. “Gods damn you to hell,
draugr!
Let us do battle, then.”

The
Marid
smiled.
“Come and find me, wolf of the sea. You know where I’ll be.”

With that, the
Marid
, the spirit that wore men, turned and disappeared into the forest.

Eighteen

The woods,

August 14, 799,

Midday

The
Marid
made no effort to hide its tracks. They led directly to the burned shell of the monastery. But then, somehow, Asgrim had always known they would. It seemed fitting that this ended where it had begun.

A cold sweat blanketed his skin, and his mind wrestled with his fears. Despite the presence of the Saracens and their mystic, the
Marid
had no fear of them; that was plain. Why not? If they had captured it once already long ago, shouldn’t the spirit fear them? Why would it taunt them and then lead them straight to its haunt?

This felt like a trap. But he wanted—
needed
—the rest of that silver.

Or did he? He already had five hundred pieces of it, each one stamped with the markings of the Saracen kingdom. That was already more coin than he had ever taken before, far more than he needed to pay his wergild and go home. He could just kill the Saracens and keep what they had paid him.

No. He wasn’t going to break his word. Besides, he needed vengeance. That damned spirit had forced him to kill his own brother, and then it had killed Alda, who, unlike Asgrim, had been a good person. There had to be a reckoning for that.

So be it.

Perhaps it was simply his fate to come back to the monastery.

Fate. Asgrim snorted, not caring when the others glanced his way. So far, the three old crones had led him on a merry chase, all in the name of this nebulous fate.

Plow fate!

He considered the Saracens. If the
Marid
was leading them to a trap, the mystic Yusuf did not seem overly concerned. Perhaps he was just too stupid to be frightened. Asgrim was damned sure he saw fear in Abid’s face, and he
knew
that one was crafty enough to recognize the danger. The four Saracen warriors, the Talons of the Falcon, he couldn’t get a feel for. They were still a puzzle. They moved through the forest like hunters closing in on a wounded animal, wary yet certain they would soon have it cornered.

The sun was high overhead when they came out of the woods and onto the edge of the square salt fields that surrounded the black monastery of
Noirmoutier
. The air still carried the stench of the burned wooden buildings, but the stone walls of the monastery remained, scorched in places, but undamaged, still strong and menacing. Not long ago, he had looked upon this monastery as a prize to be plundered, but it had been a trap.

The walls should be torn down, Asgrim thought. Nothing good would ever come from the haunted place.

He tied his helmet tightly beneath his chin, ensuring he could see through its eye-guards. The Saracen warriors prepared themselves by kneeling and praying, their heads bobbing. The sorcerer Yusuf sat by himself a short distance away and began to chant softly, his eyes closed, his lips moving quickly. Asgrim’s men stood and stared at the Saracens, then followed Asgrim’s example and began to ready their arms and armor for battle. But they moved slowly and awkwardly, as if they were half-asleep. Then they stood in a small knot, drawn together by mutual fear, gazing at the burned walls of the monastery and whispering among themselves.

Asgrim joined them, and they parted for him, making space at their center. In their grey faces, he recognized their mounting terror. These were brave men who had fought in the front rank of many shield walls, yet each one looked ready to soil himself. Asgrim understood that perfectly. A man could fight any other man and at least have a chance at defeating him. But what man could do battle with the otherworld? What man could fight a
draugr
, an undead spirit that could rip the mast off a ship and then ram it through the hull?

Sigmund Sigmundson lifted his chin and tried to smile, but failed utterly. “Wha—what orders, Captain?”

Their courage hung by the barest shred, ready to pull apart.

Asgrim reached out and wrapped an arm around Sigmund’s neck. He pulled the other man’s head in until their helmets touched. “You are a good man, Sigmund Sigmundson, a better man by far than most others. Never forget that.”

Sigmund nodded and this time, managed a feeble smile.

Asgrim let go of the other man, pulling back to speak to the others. “That damned spirit waits for us in that fucking monastery. Each of you knows this to be true.”

He paused, letting his eyes meet each of theirs. “I won’t lie to you. That thing terrifies me, and I’d like nothing more than to return to
Sea Eel
and sail away from this gods-cursed island. But I won’t. I can’t. And it isn’t the silver.”

Asgrim smiled. “Well, not
just
the silver.”

Some of the men actually smiled this time, even Steiner Ghost-Foot, who always looked as if he was sucking lemons.

Asgrim let the smile vanish from his face as he turned and pointed to the black walls of the monastery. “But I’ll have retribution. No one—not even a
draugr
—gets away with slaughtering my men, my own brother, and skinning innocent women. We’re going to teach this eastern spirit that there’s a price to be paid for fucking with sword-Danes.”

The men nodded. The terror was still in their faces, but it had been joined by resolve. Not much, perhaps, but he saw more than there had been a minute before.

“These Saracens seem to feel confident in themselves,” said Steiner, glancing toward the kneeling warriors. “Perhaps their magic
is
strong enough to stand against this spirit.”

“If it isn’t,” said Sigmund, “we’re not going to—”

“If it isn’t,” said Asgrim, “we won’t see nightfall. But all men die. Not one of us will live forever in this world anyhow. Fine! We fight, perhaps we die, but we face our fate like men, like Danes.”

The men pulled in closer to Asgrim, drawing strength from him. They nodded, meeting each other’s eyes.

“Perhaps I’ll see you in Valhalla this night,” Asgrim said.

“Aye, Captain,” they muttered, turning to one another and wishing him well, slapping each other on the back, promising to drink a beer together in the hall of heroes this night should they fall.

Asgrim swelled with pride. The gods only knew men like this deserved their place among the other heroes in Odin’s mead hall. He pulled away from his men as Abid approached.

“The
Marid
will be waiting for us within those walls,” Abid said, his voice trembling. “Soon, God willing, we shall have it again, and then we can leave these lands.”

“And give me the rest of my silver,” Asgrim said.

“Indeed, Captain.”

“It’s leading us here. You do know that, right?”

Abid’s eyes darted to the walls of the dark monastery, and his fingers once again brushed something beneath his robes. “Who can say what such a creature thinks, Captain? Most likely, it tries to frighten us away, but God watches over us, and he shall see us victorious. Mark my words, before the sun sets again, we shall have recaptured the
Marid
. God keep us safe.”

“I hope you’re right, Saracen. I hope your one god does indeed watch over you, because I don’t think my gods are here. I think I’ve sailed too far south.”

“There is only one God, and Mohammad is his prophet,” said Abid.

Asgrim snorted, rolling his eyes. “Let’s go get this damned spirit and get away from this cursed island—before the Franks come back with more soldiers.”

When all the men were ready, and Yusuf had completed his mystic preparations, they stepped off, Asgrim leading toward the black monastery. Steiner Ghost-Foot walking beside him, to his left, carrying a bow and nocked arrow. Asgrim was not surprised. Steiner was a brave man, but Asgrim
was
surprised to see the Saracen guard commander Achmed just to his right. Just for a moment, their eyes locked, and Asgrim recognized a kindred soul, another battle captain. Abid and Yusuf followed closely behind, surrounded by the other warriors.

One of the Saracen warriors said something, and Achmed paused, then glanced back at Abid and spoke in a rush, concern clear in his tone.

Asgrim scowled at Abid. “What is it?”

“There are tracks on the ground, many warriors,” said Abid.

“Aye,” said Asgrim, “Ours. We were here a week ago.”

“No, Captain,” said Abid. “He says the tracks are recent.”

Asgrim glanced at Steiner, who was now down on one knee, examining the soil. The scout looked up at Asgrim and nodded, his face betraying his embarrassment. “He’s right, Captain.”

Asgrim felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. “How many, and how long ago?”

Steiner examined the ground for several more moments, then moved to a different location about ten feet away and did the same again. Finally, he looked up. “A dozen men, maybe more. Probably two to three days ago.”

“What men?” Asgrim asked.

“Steel-shod boots.”

The Franks. They had been here. But before or after Asgrim had routed them? Or could these be new Franks, more reinforcements from the mainland?

Asgrim’s gaze searched the walls of the monastery, looking for indications of a trap, signs of men watching them from hiding. He saw nothing; not even a bird flew over the silent black walls.