The Raider

by Asta Idonea

  Published by

  Wayward Ink Publishing

  Unit 1, No. 8 Union Street

  Tighes Hill NSW 2297

  Australia

  http://www.waywardinkpublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are

  used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely

  coincidental.

  The Raider Copyright ©2014 by Asta Idonea

  Cover Art by: Lily Velden in collaboration with Jay’s Cover Designs

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or

  mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written

  permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other enquiries, contact Wayward

  Ink Publishing at: Unit 1, No. 8 Union Street, Tighes Hill, NSW, 2297, Australia.

  http://www.waywardinkpublishing.com

  ISBN 978-1-925222-31-9

  Published in Australia

  First Edition

  February 2015

  THORSTEIN DUCKED down, raised his shield, and braced against the impact as the volley of arrows descended. One punctured the wood, its point stopping just short of his eye. The groans that filled the air told him others had not been so lucky. Hefting the broken shield away, he adjusted his grip on his axe and rose to meet the enemy.

  The native warriors extended their swords and charged en masse. Instinct took over as Thorstein swung his weapon, crushing the skull of one opponent and slashing into the neck of another. The smell of blood filled the air now as men fell on both sides.

  The blow to his leg caught Thorstein by surprise and he sank to his knees. As he fell, he twisted his torso, embedding his blade into the side of his attacker just before the other man could strike again. He tried to stand, leaning heavily on his axe, but then he was struck on the back of his head and everything went black.

  HE BECAME aware of the distant calls. Voices of his countrymen uttering words of celebration and talk of home. Then the scent of burning flesh hit him, and he struggled to open his eyes.

  On the beach his friends had built a funeral pyre. The flames, fueled by flesh, cloth, and wood, rose high, ending in a plume of smoke. It had been a fierce battle and he had no doubt his fallen companions were now feasting in Valhalla. He wondered why no one had fetched him, but then he realized that the tall grass into which he had fallen must be concealing him from their view.

  He struggled to sit up and was rewarded with a jolt of pain from the wound in his leg. The ground around him was soaked with his blood, and even now more bubbled forth from the gaping hole in his thigh. He would not be leaving here without assistance.

  He called out to his friends for aid, but no one answered, and he watched with growing panic as they made their way down the beach, toward the sea and their waiting boat. Some carried weapons and shields, others the spoils they had acquired from their raid on the village. All chatted amongst themselves. None looked in his direction.

  He kept his gaze fixed on them as they boarded the boat, watching helplessly as the men took up the oars and the boat began to slip away, cutting through the waves and heading out to sea.

  Thorstein stared at the horizon long after the vessel had disappeared from view, willing them to realize their mistake and come back for him. Had no one noticed he was missing? Had no one thought to look?

  His leg throbbed and his vision began to blur, shifting back and forth like the waves that had brought him to this cursed shore. How had he offended the gods? Why would they leave him stranded here?

  He wished that Odin had granted him the honor of dying in the battle. If only he had died, axe in hand, and gone to Valhalla. Instead, here he lay, his life slowly slipping away—an ignoble and pathetic end that he doubted would give him entry to Odin’s halls.

  It was then he heard it. Movement in the grass. Someone was approaching. He fumbled for his axe. He had little chance of defeating anyone in battle, but if he went out fighting, perhaps he could still die well.

  He raised the weapon, thankful his arm at least still obeyed his commands, and waited as the stranger drew nearer. When the grass parted and he saw his adversary, Thorstein nearly lowered the axe in surprise.

  This was no warrior. The young man did not even look strong enough to wield a sword, and he was dressed in a simple tunic that offered no protection from a blade. When he saw Thorstein, he jumped back and half turned, ready to flee, but then appeared to change his mind. He looked Thorstein up and down, his gaze finally settling on the wound in Thorstein’s leg.

  He started to speak quickly. The voice was soft, and had an attractive lilt, but Thorstein couldn’t make out what he was saying. The man suddenly seemed to realize this, breaking off mid-word and biting his lower lip.

  For a moment, the two men just looked at each other in silence. Then the younger inched forward, raising his hands in supplication and gesturing at Thorstein’s leg with a nod of his head.

  Thorstein lowered the axe and placed it on the ground. He was not going to regain his honor by killing an unarmed and beardless youth, and any remaining hope he’d had of reaching Valhalla now fizzled away to nothing. Let the boy approach. Thorstein knew he was dead anyway. Nothing mattered anymore.

  The young man knelt beside him, casting a final glance at the bloodied axe before concentrating on Thorstein’s leg. He prodded around the wound, shrinking back slightly as Thorstein growled. When Thorstein made no move to grab the axe, the man seemed to relax, and produced a small knife from the belt around his waist.

  Thorstein waited for the first blow, bracing himself for more pain. There was no way this boy could kill him with one stroke, certainly not with such a puny weapon, and he expected death would not come swiftly.

  To his surprise, rather than attacking him, the young man began to cut away the leg of his trousers from the level of the wound. He worked silently and quickly, and soon had a length of material in his hand. This he eased below Thorstein’s leg, and then tied tightly around the wound.

  Thorstein hissed as the cloth pressed into his flesh, but he realized the other man was trying to help him, so he kept his hand in his lap, away from the axe, not wanting to scare the stranger away.

  The man was speaking again and, from the pointing and hand signals, Thorstein worked out that they needed to leave. There was no way he could walk on his own, but the young man was already lifting Thorstein’s arm over his shoulder to help heave him up. With their mismatched sizes, and his rescuer’s lack of upper body strength, it took three excruciating attempts, but finally Thorstein was standing, his weight on one leg as they hobbled through the grass.

  Every few steps they had to pause to give Thorstein a moment to recover from the onslaught of pain, but at last Thorstein saw a dwelling in the distance, and his companion managed to convey the fact that this was their destination.

  The house was small, made of wooden timbers and a roof of grasses and reeds. It looked solid enough but was uneven, the roof slightly lower on one side than the other, and that more than anything else told Thorstein his host was not a wealthy man.

  The young man helped Thorstein to a bench covered with a thin mattress, and he lay down, grateful to take the weight off his leg. He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. For a while, he was aware of his host moving around nearby, but soon exhaustion overtook him and he fell into a deep sleep.

  WHEN THORSTEIN woke, it took him a moment to get his bearings. When the battle and the events afterward finally came back to him, he bec
ame aware of a heat in his leg, and the smell of herbs and flowers. He looked down the length of his body and saw his wound had been packed with some kind of remedy, and then rebound with a clean strip of cloth, tied tightly and neatly at the side. The leg ached when he shifted it, but the previous sharp pain had been subdued to a dull throbbing. He’d expected to die from the cut, but it seemed his timely rescue and this aid might still save his life.

  Remembering his rescuer, he looked for the young man, but found himself alone. He gazed around, taking in his surroundings. It didn’t take long to catalogue the small space. The bench he lay on seemed to double as a seat and a bed. Close by was a table, upon which he saw a bowl, cup, and jug, and across the room sat a small wooden chest. In the centre of the dwelling a fire was burning, and a pot was positioned over it, steam rising gently from its depths and disappearing through the hole in the roof.

  Just then the door opened and the young man hurried in. He carried a simple bow over his shoulder, and a bag in his hand. Thorstein watched as he placed the bow down against the wall and laid the bag upon the table. He started when he turned and saw Thorstein awake and looking at him, but he quickly recovered and offered a smile. The gesture made him look even younger, but Thorstein guessed he must be in his early twenties—already a man despite his deceptively lithe frame.

  “Heill,” Thorstein said, his voice cracking a little as he offered the greeting. Gods, I am thirsty. “Thorstein,” he added, tapping his chest. “Ek heiti Thorstein.”

  “Godwin,” the youth replied, catching on quickly.

  “Heill, Godwin.” Thorstein started to cough and tried to sit up, pulling himself backward in the pallet.

  When Godwin offered him a cup, he skulled it in a single swallow. The ale was weak but refreshing, and it eased his parched throat. He made short work of a second cupful, and then a third, before handing the beaker back.

  Godwin opened his bag and pulled out a loaf of bread. Breaking off a large handful, he approached Thorstein again and offered it to him. “Hlāf?” He pointed at the bread. “Hlāf.”

  Thorstein took it. He weighed it in his hand a moment, and then, seeing Godwin watching him, pointed to it and said, “Brauð.”

  “Brauð,” Godwin repeated, looking to Thorstein for approval, which he gave in the form of a nod.

  As Thorstein ate, Godwin returned to his bag and pulled out a small rabbit. He set about skinning and cleaning the animal, and then tossed the chopped pieces of meat into the cooking pot, adding some herbs to the mix.

  The bread had only sharpened Thorstein’s hunger and the smell of the rabbit stew made his stomach growl. When it was ready, Godwin filled a bowl and passed it to Thorstein. The stew was thin and the meat in meagre supply, but at that moment, it was the best thing Thorstein had ever eaten, and he wolfed it down, happily accepting a refill.

  It was only as he commenced his fourth serving that he realized he was using Godwin’s only bowl, and the young man had not yet partaken of the meal. He held the bowl out, gesturing for Godwin to eat, but his host just held up the piece of bread he had been nibbling on and rattled off a string of words which Thorstein took to mean the stew was for him alone.

  Finishing his meal, Thorstein lay back down and sank once again into a peaceful slumber.

  THE DAYS passed quickly. Thorstein slept often, and when he woke, Godwin was always there with food and drink. Their conversation was limited at first, but as the days became weeks, they picked up words from each other’s language until they were able to communicate well enough to express their needs.

  Thorstein’s wound continued to heal thanks to Godwin’s care, and eventually he was able to move about the room and take tentative steps outside. Thorstein learnt Godwin was a shepherd whose sheep roamed the nearby hillsides, and he started to walk out with him to tend them, needing to exercise his leg and breathe the fresh air.

  More and more, he found his thoughts straying to the young man. Even in dreams, he saw him. He told himself it was simply the fact that Godwin was all he knew here. Perhaps his people would return the next summer and he’d be able to go home with them, but there was no certainty—this land could just as likely be where he would spend the rest of his life.

  Summer soon became autumn, and the nights began to draw in. As they sat close to the fire, Thorstein would watch Godwin out of the corner of his eye. He knew his every gesture now, from the way he bit his lower lip when he was nervous or unsure, to the way he ran his fingers absentmindedly through the soft, dark curls that framed his head. There was only one word to describe Godwin: beautiful. For a while, he’d wondered if the boy was actually Baldur, come back from Hel’s domain. But his gods did not seem to exist here. As near as he could tell, the people here believed in only one god. When he tried to explain about Odin and Thor to Godwin, the young man became confused, and shook his head with a wistful smile.

  Thorstein did not realize how much he desired Godwin until they came to share a bed for the first time. Throughout his recovery, Thorstein had slept on the bed whilst Godwin lay upon some straw on the floor near the fire. As he improved, Thorstein began to feel guilty about depriving the man of his soft mattress. The bench was narrow, but would fit two if they slept closely together on their sides.

  One night he saw Godwin shivering upon the floor and called out to him. Godwin had seemed hesitant, but the need for warmth and comfort prevailed, and he joined Thorstein on the bench. Thorstein pulled Godwin close to his chest, and draped an arm over him to keep him from rolling onto the floor. The young man fit snugly against him, his curls tickling Thorstein’s mouth and nose, catching in his beard, and Thorstein felt a stirring in his groin he had not experienced in a long time.

  He was afraid the physical manifestation of his desire would scare the young man away, but Godwin was already sleeping deeply and remained unaware of the arousal that kept the Viking awake long into the night.

  They slept together every night after that, and as winter gripped the land, the shared body heat helped them survive the icy cold that infiltrated the house whenever the sun fell. Most nights Thorstein could keep his feelings under control, but every so often he failed when he felt the gentle movement of Godwin’s body against his, and remembered the fullness of the younger man’s lips. Lips he was becoming desperate to taste.

  Godwin made regular trips to the nearby town, trading the results of his hunt for other supplies. Thorstein was never invited to accompany him, nor had he had much interest in going. While Godwin was away, he had time alone to think without the distraction of the younger man’s eyes and smile.

  “Can I come with you?” Thorstein asked one day as he watched Godwin prepare to depart.

  Godwin looked surprised by the request. Almost as surprised as Thorstein was to hear himself utter the words.

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, you and your people did attack the town a few months ago. Some people may... hold a grudge.”

  “But they know I’m here?” Thorstein had intended it as a statement, but it turned into a question when Godwin averted his gaze.

  “I thought it better to keep it a secret.”

  “How, then, are you explaining the extra supplies you need?”

  Godwin met his gaze. “I told them a cousin from Mercia was assisting me with the sheep.”

  “A cousin—”

  “I was worried they’d kill you if they knew,” Godwin rushed on. He was so agitated that Thorstein could only just make out what he was saying. “And I wanted to keep you to....”

  “Why did you save me, Godwin?” Thorstein asked, stepping closer. “You could have left me there to die, or finished me off yourself. Why did you help me?”

  Godwin made a move to flee. He was swift, but Thorstein could move as well when he needed to, and he made it to the door first, blocking the exit with his broad shoulders. Godwin nearly careened into him, stumbling backward at the last moment.

  Thorstein cr
ossed his arms and adjusted his stance. “Why won’t you answer me, Godwin?”

  “I was captivated,” Godwin mumbled, staring steadily at his feet.

  “I’m sorry. I find it hard to understand unless you speak up.” Thorstein was lying, and from the glare Godwin cast his way, the younger man knew it also, but at least he was looking at him again.

  “I’d never seen anyone like you before. You were so strong, so fierce... defiant, even in the face of death. I was afraid of you, of course, covered as you were in blood... but I also felt drawn to you. To leave you there to die seemed such a waste. I probably would have tried to help anyone. God wants us to help our fellow man. But I needed to save you in particular because, to me, you seemed... perfect.” During the speech, Godwin had inched closer, and now he raised his hand and gently brushed a strand of Thorstein’s hair away from his face.

  Thorstein grasped Godwin’s hand, thanking the gods for allowing him to see that Godwin craved him too. But Godwin seemed to shrink in on himself, pulled away and edged back until his route was blocked by the table.

  “What’s wrong?” Thorstein asked. He wanted to rush to Godwin and pull him into his arms, but he sensed that would only make things worse.

  “I am afraid.”

  “Of what, Godwin?” Thorstein asked. He could see the young man was shaking, and it hurt to see his friend so upset.

  “You... me... whatever it is that’s been happening between us over these past weeks.”

  “Godwin, you saved my life, taught me your words so we could speak together. I consider you my friend... but I also desire you.”

  “I know.” Godwin paused. “I was hoping....”

  “What were you hoping?”

  Godwin gave a short, mocking laugh, and shook his head. “I don’t even know what I was hoping. I only know that now something is happening, I have never felt so afraid.”

  “I would never hurt you.”

  “I know. It’s not that....”

  “Do you trust me?” Thorstein waited until Godwin nodded, and then said, “Close your eyes.”