Black Monastery (9 page)

Usually, Bjorn was the one who tempered Asgrim’s mood. He hadn’t realized before how much he depended on his younger brother’s support. He wiped his sweaty palms against his wool trousers and began to climb the ladder. The platform sagged and creaked under his weight, but Bjorn didn’t turn to see who had joined him. Instead, he kept staring out at the dark woods.

Asgrim leaned against the railing of the platform next to his brother. A half-moon peered out from behind clouds, providing just enough light to make out the dark bulk of the monastery. A light wind caressed his face, providing a welcome relief from the day’s heat.

“Well…” Asgrim broke the silence. “Will you talk to me?”

When Bjorn answered, his voice sounded raw, as if talking was difficult. “We never should have come here. You’ve led us to ruin.”

Feeling like he had been punched in the gut, Asgrim stared at the dark profile of his brother’s face. He needed Bjorn’s support. He had no one else to turn to, not since that red night when he had been so drunk and filled with rage. Bjorn had found him, covered in blood, senseless with alcohol, and mad with guilt. Bjorn had dragged him away, gathered the men, and oversaw their escape on
Sea Eel
. If not for Bjorn, Asgrim would have died that night. Perhaps he should have. Asgrim deserved death for what he had done; he saw it in the faces of his men when they didn’t think he was looking. Only Bjorn had stood by him, but if his brother was turning against him…

“We had no choice,” said Asgrim. “We had to try, to take a chance here. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have listened to that damned Saracen. I wanted to believe him too much.” Asgrim reached out and gripped his brother’s forearm. “I’ll make this right, bring you home again.”

“I don’t feel…
right
,” said his brother, almost whispering.

“You should sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning. We all will.”

His brother turned and stared at him in the darkness. “Do you hear the voice? Does it call to you, as well?”

“Voice? What voice?”

His brother turned away again, putting his back to Asgrim. “I feel… as if… someone or something is pushing me out… pushing me away from myself.” Bjorn chuckled, but it sounded half like a cry.

Asgrim reached out for his brother’s shoulder, then hesitated, not quite touching him. “Brother, what do you mean?”

“Go away!” Bjorn hissed. “Leave me.”

Menace tainted his brother’s voice. Asgrim recognized Bjorn was moments from violence. He nodded and lowered his hand, then turned away. A deep sense of unease welled up within him as he climbed down the ladder. Sleep. That’s all he needs. In the morning, he’ll be himself again.

* * *

When the last of the raiders had left the monastery, heading in the direction of the soldiers’ fort, Alda wanted to rush in and check it, to immediately search for her sister. Instead, she forced herself to wait and to remain calm, not to do something hasty and foolish. It would be safer if she waited, she told herself. There might still be Vikings within the monastery. That thought sent chills down her spine. Would they pretend to march away, to the fort, yet leave men behind in ambush?

So she waited until late in the night. Once, she actually fell asleep for a bit, before startling herself awake again, angry at her weakness. She couldn’t sleep. She was exhausted, but she couldn’t give in to her body. If she did, she might doze away until morning, and the foreigners would probably come back in the daylight. Then, she would no longer have the opportunity to save Celsa.

Save Celsa? Who was she kidding?

She knew she could never save her sister now. That chance was long gone, and Celsa had to be dead. The prisoner the northmen had led to the fort had been a soldier, not a woman. Even from where she was hiding, she was close enough to tell a man from a woman. Earlier, she had watched the raiders drag the bodies out and pile them just beyond the monastery’s walls into an obscene mound of the dead. She had gotten as close as she could, but she had been too frightened to get too close and risk being discovered. She had been too far away to see if any of the corpses had been women, but she was still certain Celsa had never left the monastery, and the northmen would never free a beautiful woman like her sister.

Alda had failed Celsa.

But she had to do something, had to make sure. So when she was certain that anyone still within the monastery—if there was anyone still within the monastery—must be asleep, she rose from her hiding place and began to slip silently toward the complex, sweat pouring from her flushed skin, her senses hyperaware. She was ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.

Within a hundred paces of the walls, the smell struck her, forcing her to stagger to a stop and clutch a hand over her mouth and nose. Sweet Jesus, the stench! How could the raiders have stood it for the entire day they were within the monastery? No wonder they left for the fort.

Shaking her head, feeling like she was going to vomit, she forced herself to keep going. When she got closer, she heard the buzzing of flies. Their droning became louder with every step she took, sounding as if every single fly that had ever been hatched was buzzing about her ears. Even in the darkness, she saw the mound of corpses and pieces of corpses in the field near the monastery’s gate. The monks and the soldiers were all dead—a rotting pile of dead flesh. She stood back, staring at the obscene mound. She cursed the northmen, but they probably had not killed these men. There had been no sound of battle, and no screams of the dying, when they attacked the monastery. Whatever had happened here had started with those damned monks.

She had been right when she was a child. Some dark, malignant rot had been within that damned monastery and always had been. Eyes reflected in the moonlight among the dead, and she heard the skitter of tiny paws. Rats and other creatures had found the dead. As she stared at the obscene mound, her world seemed to spin about her. Someone should bury them. It was the Christian thing to do. But she also knew no one would approach the monastery until the raiders had sailed away. Was Celsa in that pile? Could she bring herself to look closer?

She took a step toward the pile, and then another. The rats didn’t even acknowledge her presence. Alda jumped when a rat ran over her foot, then leapt back into the feast with the others. She moaned softly, and her hands trembled, but she forced herself to go closer. She had to look for Celsa. She had to.

How many dead men had been piled up outside the monastery? How many priests had there been? Twenty? How many soldiers? Just then, the clouds that had been blocking the moon drifted away, and the moon’s full light fell upon the pile of dead. She staggered to a stop, gasping, her hand reaching for her throat. The head of every single corpse in the pile was somehow staring directly at her.

She turned and fled, hating herself for her weakness.

* * *

Asgrim lunged at Hrolf the Elder, stepping in to jab the edge of his shield against the other man’s, trying shove it aside as he moved from the high guard to simultaneously slash at the taller man’s helmeted head. But Hrolf managed to keep his shield in place, so Asgrim altered his strike, moving instead to slash against Hrolf’s neck. Hrolf was far too good for such a feeble attack, and the large man’s blade met Asgrim’s in a bind. Sparks flew through the air as the men applied pressure, subtly seeking weakness in the other’s position. Slightly off balance, but still trying to stay on the offensive, Asgrim was the first to move from the bind, coming over Hrolf’s blade to slash down at his front thigh. But the other man—making sure his feet didn’t leave the blanket—simply pulled his foot back while simultaneously lashing out at Asgrim’s face with his sword that was so fast that Asgrim only just managed to catch it with his shield. Sweat poured into Asgrim’s eyes. His breathing was wild, rushed. Having no other choice, he attacked again, hoping to score a lucky hit by overwhelming the older man.

Usually, in combat, all men followed a cycle: attack, counter-attack, withdrawal. Then the cycle would begin again—until someone found an opening. But this was different. This was a duel, and both men had to stay on the blanket upon which they stood. They couldn’t pull back to catch their breath and look for their opponent’s weaknesses, so instead, they hammered at one another, again and again, from so close they could each hear the other’s strained breathing and see the pain in his face from constant exertion. Duels rarely lasted more than extended moments, a minute at best. Asgrim had no idea how long he and his captain had been fighting, but it was well past a minute. Any moment now, thought Asgrim, any moment now. He’s too old for this. He’ll make a mistake and drop his guard. Asgrim would get his chance.

Hrolf struck out, changing from a middle guard to low guard as he slashed out at Asgrim’s leg beneath his shield. Unable to step out of the way and still remain on the blanket, Asgrim dropped his shield, catching the blade just in time. Hrolf, however, had overextended himself, exposing his own lead leg. Seizing the moment, Asgrim slashed down at it. His blade scraped against Hrolf’s thigh, and his face twisted in pain.

Yes! Asgrim’s heart surged with joy. And then he realized his mistake. He had leaned forward too far, too quickly, and despite cutting Hrolf, he was now off balance—with his shield dropped. In horror, Asgrim realized Hrolf’s attack had been nothing more than a trap, a feint. The real attack came from Hrolf’s shield, which was rushing toward Asgrim’s exposed face.

In the moment before the metal boss of the shield smashed into his face, Asgrim, seemingly standing outside himself and watching the duel dispassionately, noted his own surprise that the older man had been that good, that tricky. When had old men ever been that skilled with a blade? Asgrim had thought him fat and slow, but Hrolf had been neither.

Crack!

A bright light filled his head. The blow lifted him from his feet and sent him flying. The world spun about him, and he became aware he was on the ground, on his back.

But he was still on the blanket.

He tried to focus his vision, seeing a blurred Hrolf standing above him. He shook his head, surprised at the absence of pain and unable to focus, but still somehow, he was aware of what went on around him. All around them, men stared, some shaking their heads. Above him, Hrolf looked down upon him. The older man’s eyes were calm, angry but calm.

“You’re done, boy. It’s over,” Hrolf’s voice boomed through the ringing in his ears.

Asgrim shook his head, tasting the blood flowing into his mouth. “No. Not done.”

His sword lay nearby, and he grasped at it, somehow wrapping his fingers around its hilt. He stabbed with the blade from where he lay on the ground, but the attack had no force. With a howl of outrage, Hrolf brought his sword blade down upon Asgrim’s, and the metal snapped in two. Asgrim stared stupidly at the ruin of his sword. He pulled himself up onto his knees and glared at Hrolf before lunging up at him with his broken blade. The older man shook his head and then hit him in the face again with his metal shield boss. This time, it came from above, with his full weight behind it.

This time, he was pounded by pain, oceans of agony.

And then Asgrim’s dreams shifted and changed. He was no longer the boy he had been. Now he was the man, the famous war band leader: Asgrim Wood-Nose, the Wolf from the Northern Sea—the fool who couldn’t keep his own woman. Once again, he saw Freya’s beautiful freckled face covered in blood, her dead eyes staring at Asgrim from beneath the corpse of Frodi—who had been almost the same age as Asgrim was when he had fought Hrolf. And what had young Frodi ever done to Asgrim to deserve death? He had been a good lad, always ready with a smile or a friendly word. There would be no Valhalla for Frodi, no drinking and fighting among the other warriors. To get into Valhalla, a man needed to die with a weapon in his hand, not his manhood inside a woman.

Inside Asgrim’s woman.

Men had died for far less. What had the boy been thinking? He was the son of the earl. He could have had any woman in Hedeby. Why had he wanted Asgrim’s?

No, that wasn’t correct. She may have been his wife, but when had Freya ever truly been Asgrim’s woman? Never. Lovemaking had always been nothing but tears and shame, tears and shame. Her tears, his shame.

No children, no future.

Now, in his dream, the corpse of Frodi moved again, turned and rolled off Freya’s naked, blood-soaked body to stare at Asgrim. Frodi scowled accusingly at Asgrim, who stared in horror as Freya’s corpse also moved, sitting up to point at Asgrim. Her mouth opened to speak, to condemn him, but instead of words, a dog’s pitiful whine came from her lips.

Asgrim bolted awake.

Hopp cried out beside him again. The vallhund was whining in terror as it tried to bury its large head beneath Asgrim’s arm. The night air felt cool on his sweaty skin, and he glanced about, trying to find his bearings. He pulled Hopp’s head in close, then put his arm around the dog and hugged him, rubbing his flank.

He was within the darkened longhouse. The rest of the men were asleep, dark shadows outlined by the smoldering firepit. He listened for a while, hearing only their snores and heavy breathing. But something
felt
wrong. Long ago, he had learned to trust his instincts, and this night, his instincts screamed of danger. Something was out there in the dark, something malignant and filled with hate. The night air practically throbbed with menace. Asgrim climbed unsteadily to his feet, almost tripping over the sleeping form of another man. Behind him, Hopp buried himself in Asgrim’s discarded blanket. His weapons and chain mail armor lay near his feet, always within reach, and he drew
Heart-Ripper
from its sealskin scabbard before walking out the doorway into the night. Looking about, he saw the two sentries standing near the fort’s entrance.

Asgrim glanced up at the stars. It was early morning yet, he guessed, probably an hour or two before sunrise. Although the sky was still dark, he could just make out the faces of the two sentries: Sigmund Sigmundson and Gjuki Horse-Dick. Both were good men, two of the more experienced of the crew. Asgrim could see the concern on their faces as he approached. Whatever it was he felt, they must have picked up on it, as well.