Black Monastery (3 page)

He handed the weapon to his son, hilt first. The young man hesitated, his hand inches from it.

“Go on, boy. Take it.”

The young man wrapped his fingers around the detailed leather handle and raised the weapon in front of his eyes. The blade was unlike anything he had ever seen before, with a bizarre frost-like pattern smelted into the steel. He made a cut with it, and the blade whistled through the air. Its balance was perfect, like an extension of his arm. He stared in wonder at his father, who beamed back at him.

“It’s perfect. Lighter than I would have thought, wider than most swords.” He gripped the pointed tip with his fingers and slightly bent the blade. “But lighter somehow, and more flexible—so flexible.” He stared in wonder at the blade. A single groove, called a fuller, ran most of the length of the weapon. The indentation carved in the sword made it lighter and more flexible, allowing it to retain its strength the entire length of the blade. Staring intently at it, he saw writing in the hollow of the fuller. Starting near the hilt, a single word read: +ULFBERH+T. “It can’t be Damascus steel, not with those crosses. Is it… Frankish?”

His father snorted. “Franks make good swords, boy, but those aren’t crosses. They’re hammers. Thor hammers. You’re holding
crucible
steel, lad, crucible steel, made in the secret ways brought back from the
Volga
. That is an
Ulfberht
blade. One of only a damned few ever made. The metal is special. I won’t pretend to understand how, but because it’s lighter, it can be made longer, more flexible and thus won’t get caught in an opponent’s shield as easily as others might. You see the point? It’s tapered so it can stab through chain mail.”

“Chain mail? Really?”

“Really. Once, I saw the earl skewer a Frankish prince with his
Ulfberht
. A single thrust, right through the metal links, like they were nothing more than wool. Ripped the man’s heart in two.”

“
Heart-Ripper
,” he said in wonder.

“As good a name as any.” His father smiled, his eyes gleaming. “I wish I had such a weapon when I was your age.”

He stared at his father. “I can’t take this. I don’t deserve it. You’ll need it this spring.”

His father seemed to rise in height, and when he spoke, his voice boomed with his authority. “It is a gift, boy. A gift.”

The young man lowered his eyes. “Yes, father. I’m sorry. Thank you. I… don’t know what to say.”

His father snorted. “Then say nothing. But take it, and get yourself home. Your mother will worry that I keep you out too late when you’re still injured.”

“I’m better now.”

His father grinned and shoved him. “I know it, boy, but your mother doesn’t.”

“What are you going to do?”

His father tilted his large head toward
Sea-Eel
, which bobbed softly in the waters of the inlet. “I’m going to go sit on my ship for a time. It’ll probably be the only chance I’ll get for a spell of solitude until after this spring’s raiding.” With a slightly pained expression on his face, he rubbed his bicep, swinging his arm in a circle. “Too damned old for this shit. Go on, then, Asgrim. Off with you.”

Asgrim turned and loped away, his new sword beneath his arm. Bjorn would be green with envy. As he approached the lights of their manor and farmlands, his feet seemed to float over the ground. Somehow, life had become good again. That hadn’t seemed possible. Soon, very, very soon, they would finish
Sea Eel’s
rigging. In another week, she would be provisioned and ready for sailing. This time, under his father’s command, he would wash away the memory of his first raid. His scars would remain forever, but his future was bright again.

The next morning, Guthorm, always first to work, found Asgrim's father’s corpse, still sitting at the prow of his longship, an arm around the tiller, a surprised look on his dead face, which stared up at the early morning sky.

“Destiny,” whispered the workers.

Fate.

One

The coast of the Kingdom of Frankia,

August 2, 799,

Dawn

Sea Eel’s
dragonhead prow rose high above the waves and then smashed down again, throwing cold spray into the air. Asgrim Wood-Nose locked his gaze on the dark tree-lined shore of the approaching island.
Sea Eel’s
sail was furled, so each of the eighty-six Danish warriors pulled at a dripping oar, their excited eyes shining in the moonlight. The night was silent, expectant; the only sound came from the waves crashing against the pebbled beach ahead of them.

It was already hot; a promise of the scorcher to come, and Asgrim wedged a finger beneath the eye guard of his helm to wipe stinging sweat away from his eyes. Peering past the wooden prow of his ship, he watched the dark forest beyond the beach, but saw no sign of life. He glanced up, his eyes drawn once more to the flaming tail of the red dragon burning in the night sky.

The dragon had first appeared two days ago, when they were still following the coastline south. Bjorn had told the men it was an omen, a sign that Odin was pleased with their raid and that he would watch over them. Asgrim sighed, and that moment, Hopp, his vallhund, rose from where he had been resting between the seated rows of men and came to him, rubbing his thick body against his legs. He reached down and scratched behind the dog’s ears.

Bjorn was wrong. Odin didn’t favor cowards and murderers. The flaming dragon
was
an omen, but not a favorable one. It was a promise of doom, of red death; his fate. And what could a man do to change his fate?

Nothing.

Fate was inexorable, like the tides.

The longship’s deck creaked as Bjorn moved to stand beside him. Asgrim was a tall man, a large man, but Bjorn towered over him. In his bearlike hands, his little brother held a great two-handed Dane ax, its edge sharpened keenly, its wooden length studded with iron rivets. Both men wore their finely crafted chain mail coats and full iron helms, with the fur-lined cheek flaps tied in place beneath their beards. Only the two brothers, however, possessed chain mail armor. Most of the men wore only padded leather or reindeer-hide coats, even though each Dane carried a serviceable wooden round shield with a sturdy iron boss.

Sea Eel’s
prow scraped against the sandy shoreline, coming to a jarring stop, and Asgrim roused himself, forcing his attention back to where it needed to be. He didn’t know what destiny his crimes had bought him, but whatever it was, he would face it like a man. If murder and misery were all the Nornar would give him, he would play out his part and drown the world in blood.

Hopp pushed against his leg, anxious to go, and Asgrim slapped the coarse flank of the hunting dog. In a moment, Hopp leapt over the prow of the longship and was loping across the sandy shoreline before disappearing into the trees. Had anyone been waiting in ambush, Hopp would have barked.

But the vallhund made no sound.

“Go!” snarled Asgrim.

Without a word, eighty-six Danish raiders launched themselves over the side of the longship, splashing through the water to the shore. Asgrim felt the excitement of coming battle surge within him. He gripped the handle of the iron boss on his shield and drew
Heart-Ripper
from its sheath before dropping over the side of his ship and landing in the wet sand. His men had already fanned out, forming a half ring to defend the ship, but there was no need, they were alone on this beach.

The Franks called this island
Noirmoutier
, the Black Monastery. It sat just off the coast of the Kingdom of Frankia, at the mouth of a great river
.
The island and its monastery were named for the Christian holy men who dressed all in black and resided here in their great stone home, worshipping their ridiculous One God. Asgrim and his men had sailed for weeks to get here, past the Kingdom of Wessex to the north before turning south to follow the coast. And it had been an unpleasant voyage, plagued by violent summer storms, blistering hot sun, and short tempers—especially Asgrim’s. But there had been no choice: the earl had leveled a monstrous wergild on Asgrim. In order to pay it, Asgrim needed profit—else his war band would fall apart as each man felt the pull of home, a home now denied Asgrim. And here on
Noirmoutier
there was silver, a hoard of silver, enough to pay his wergild.

Days ago, at a trading camp along the coast, they had met a group of dark-skinned Saracens, black-eyed easterners. Their leader had whispered of the vast secret hoard of silver the holy men had hidden away on this island. No fool, Asgrim hadn’t trusted the Saracen, but he also felt certain the heavy hand of fate was at play. He needed treasure; the holy men possessed treasure.

“Scouts,” he hissed, jabbing his sword point inland.

Five of his stealthiest men, led by Steiner Ghost-Foot, the best hunter Asgrim had ever known, darted into the trees, leading the way. Five other men remained behind to guard the longship, and Asgrim led the remainder of his war band into the forest.

Thankfully, the foliage was open, easy to traverse, and they moved quickly. The Saracen trader, generous to a fault, had also provided Asgrim with the details of the island, including the monastery’s location, about two miles inland. By the time they came out of the woods and hit the monastery, the sun would be rising.
If
everything went according to plan, which almost never happened, most of the monks would still be asleep.

He needed surprise, particularly since the Saracen had also warned of a small fort built beside the monastery, manned by soldiers sent by the Frankish king, Charlemagne. If the soldiers and priests were waiting for them, the raid could become too costly. Despite the boasts of drunken warriors, most men secretly wanted easy fights with little risk. Clever captains sought one-sided fights and kept their losses down.

As they stalked through the darkened forest, the black night lightened, turned grey. They exited the woods, coming out onto salt fields where the ground crunched beneath their boots. Just ahead of them, framed by the red glow of the emerging sun, they saw the monastery for the first time.

They dropped to their bellies, watching the monastery from behind a ditch in the salt fields. The monastery had been aptly named. In the pre-dawn light, shadows settled over the buildings, blanketing everything in darkness. The structure was surrounded by rows of salt fields and copses of trees. The main buildings, which rose two stories high, were joined together at a right angle, forming a half square. A tall crenellated stone wall met each end of each building, extending out to complete the square. The open space in between would be the monastery’s inner courtyard. Sloping tiled roofs reached up to meet a stone bell tower where the two buildings met. The windows in the stone walls were all thin, dark slits, devoid of signs of life. Asgrim peered intently at the tower, looking for a sentry, but saw no one. He didn’t see anyone moving about the many sheds and small huts of the monastery grounds. He smiled. They must all still be sleeping. Good.

Just west of the monastery, no more than two or three thousand ells away, sat the garrison’s fort—a log palisade surrounding a single wooden longhouse. There was a village to the southeast, Asgrim knew, if the Saracen’s description was correct—and everything else the man had said so far had turned out to be right—but it was at least a half hour’s walk away, which was too far to influence the coming battle.

“Twenty, thirty soldiers?” offered Bjorn, peering at the dark bulk of the fort.

Asgrim nodded. “Enough to cause us trouble. More than enough to hold the fort.”

Bjorn snorted. “I can take that fort from them. Shove those wooden logs right up their Frankish asses.”

Asgrim frowned at his younger brother. “They can sit all day in their wooden fort, just as long as they don’t try to stop us. We’re here for silver, not blood.”

“Well…
some
blood,” Bjorn muttered in a hurt voice.

“Take twenty killers—none of the un-blooded boys. Stay hidden. If the soldiers try to come out and help,
then
you smash them. Send them running.”

“Aye,” said Bjorn.

Asgrim stared at the monastery again, seeking signs that the inhabitants were waking. In the east, the sky was beginning to turn red, and far off, a rooster crowed. It was time.

Bjorn reached over and squeezed Asgrim’s forearm. His brother watched him closely with an uncomfortable look on his face.

“Brother,” Bjorn said. “I… know how you must feel, but the gods will forgive you. Men make mistakes. We do things we never meant to do.
All of us
. A madness took you that night, that’s all. You’re not a monster. The gods watch over you now: Odin and Thor. They approve of your courage.
That
matters, what we do now. All else will pass in time. You will pay the earl’s wergild, and if Freya’s brothers—”

“Freya had no brothers, and her father is old,” said Asgrim. “But old man or not, if he comes to me with sword in hand, I will not… not…”

“It won’t be like that, brother. I will talk to her father for you, explain things.”

A rush of shame threatened to crush Asgrim, and he closed his eyes. Bjorn was wrong about the red dragon, and he was wrong about him. Asgrim
was
doomed. The crones spun their damned bloody thread from which dangled the lives of men, and some acts could never be smoothed out or explained away.

Asgrim exhaled and nodded once, quickly, as he pulled free of his brother’s grip. “I know.” But he didn’t know at all, and a thickness clogged his throat. “Fight well. You have my back, as always.”

Asgrim was surprised and pleased that his voice did not crack.

Bjorn’s face betrayed his doubt, but he nodded and rose to pull together his men. In minutes, they were gone, moving off toward the fort. The soldiers there would not interfere this night, Asgrim knew. He trusted his brother completely. Bjorn was as clever as an otter. Many a fool had made the mistake of thinking him stupid because of his size. More than a few had died for that mistake.