The smell of gunpowder and male sweat wafted into his nose and stirred his longing for that life of war. He had found his place in the military. He walked through the barracks as he had then, confident and assured, despite his shabby dress and lack of uniform. He had risen through the ranks with speed and surety. They had hailed him a hero after one successful battle after another, and his strategies and tactics had been inspired. Even if his father could not fail to give him grudging respect, even if he never said it aloud. They had to take notice of him then, when he brought such glory for Sweden.
All until the battle when he’d lost five hundred men. It had been a gamble, a bold move to rout the enemy, but the men had lacked discipline, and the generals and other officers had quailed and cost them the element of surprise. And he had paid the price for their foolishness.
Ordinarily officers would not suffer such shame—lives were expendable. But it was a step too far for the generals who had been afraid of Ragnar’s popularity. They had seen an opportunity and acted, and they had got his father to go along with them. Not that the old miser would have needed much coaxing. His indifference had been locked in decades ago.
General Lundgren had been the one to instigate it, and it was outside his office that Ragnar found himself. His secretary was out, and he marched up to the door bearing the general’s name. It was the same as when he’d left but the feeling of looking at it was different. Then he’d been ordered to appear, flanked by guards, but his confidence had been such that he believed he would have nothing to answer for. But now, he knew there was nothing the general could do to stop him.
He knocked and a gruff voice commanded him to enter.
The white-haired general with his thick moustache sat hunched over his desk, quill scrawling rapidly across parchment. Orders for the field, or merely missives to the King, that desk had been where he’d written to his father to ask approval to dismiss. The two old men knew each other, had been friends once, and shared a mutual distaste for Ragnar over what he would have liked to believe was their fear of him but was more likely their ridicule.
Ragnar shut the door and approached the desk. The light in the room was starting to fade despite the candles.
The general took in the shabby clothes covering his body, curled his lip and smiled when he recognized Ragnar. He put down his quill and leaned back, folding his hands over his stomach.
“I thought you were dead. You certainly look as such. How did you get in here?”
“No defenses can keep me out.”
“Well, I suppose whores manage to find their way in here all the time. You’d be no different.” The general smirked, superiority oozed out of him. “What do you want?”
“I’ve come to take my revenge.”
Lundgren snorted, leaned over his desk, and waved him away with his hand. “You’re lucky we let you out of here alive after your ineptitude, and you dare show your face here? The shame should have kept you away longer than a year. Better men would have drunk themselves to death. Get out.” The general picked up his quill.
Dismissed and disregarded, Ragnar’s blood boiled and incinerated the calm demeanor he had wanted to project. He reached across the table, grabbed Lundgren by his shirt front, and hurled him across the room. The general’s shout of alarm broke short as he slammed into the wall and crumpled to the floor.
Ragnar stalked over to the wincing, grunting figure. Lundgren tried to right himself and regain his composure, but he was flustered. The general raised his arm to protect himself, but Ragnar snared it in his grip and twisted sharply until the bone snapped. The general cried out and fear widened his eyes and mouth.
“What is this?” he stammered.
Ragnar crouched, pressed his hand against the general’s chest like an immovable weight crushing him against the wall. He kept up a slow, growing pressure, feeling his sternum and ribs creak as agony twisted his face. “I had to live in the forest for a year. I had to become a bandit, an outlaw, because of what you did, because you thought I was useless.”
“You were responsible for the death of five hundred men and your recklessness would have killed a thousand more.”
“That number pales compared to the number you have sent to their slaughter. You destroyed my life, and I will repay you in kind.”
“I only did what was right. If you want someone to blame, blame your father.”
“I will.”
Ragnar’s eyes flared, he grabbed Lundgren by the throat. The symbol flashed in Ragnar’s mind and shot out to do its awful work. The general’s soul detached—he could feel the separation, like a click, like a lock unlocking—then it was his. He drew it in, drew it in slow, as slow as he could, to keep Lundgren alive as long as possible.
All the while the general kept his gaze fixed on Ragnar’s. He would know to his last breath Ragnar’s might. He relished the dread that knowledge invoked and let the general’s life wash through him. He caught glimpses of himself, but he was too much in haste and once sighted they were already gone. He searched for more but there were none until his final moments, tarred with terror at what this thing had done.
Life left the general’s eyes and he slumped like a sack of barley. The energy from the soul barreled through him, rolling and tumbling, and Ragnar stood, breathed deep of his vanquished foe’s essence. He flexed his hands and fingers and stretched. Lightning struck his heart, a feeling of being alive, of being vital and connected.
He had been right to choose the general for his first kill. He had got the vengeance he had wanted and ignored Lundgren’s lies. He had not been responsible for those deaths. He had done the right thing and would have brought greater glory for Sweden and the King. But the small-minded fool hadn’t seen that, and he’d paid for his mistakes with his life. He cracked his knuckles and went in search of the other men who’d been party to his betrayal.
By the time he was finished, six souls swam through his blood and he swayed like a drunkard. An alarm was raised as he left the barracks dressed in new civilian clothes and a heft of riksdaler in his pocket. He longed to take a regimental sword with him, strip the badges from the dead’s jackets and take them as trophies, but what did he need with their mortal decorations? He would be praised with sagas. Once he was done with his revenge. Then it could all start afresh.
He turned for the road to Jönköping and his ancestral home. It took him the greater part of the night to reach the outskirts of the city, and he waited for it to stir. He sauntered in, found a room where he could wash and a tailor that could deck him in fine clothes for when he presented himself to his father. He pressed the tailor to have it finished for the next morning, paid him handsomely for it with stolen coin, and spent the hours circling the castle where his father and brother lived. He poured his ire into it, hoping it would catch fire with the strength of his hate alone.
Blame your father, the general had said.
Everything that had gone wrong could be traced back to that odious serpent. His elder brother had benefited from his accident of birth, but there had been more than enough wealth to go around. Everything he had got he had earned for himself, a noble name not counting for as much as it should, and still he was not worthy enough to be treated as an equal son. And after the failed battle he’d been left homeless, without title and without income.
Not that it mattered now.
He forced himself to believe that it didn’t matter now.
He could have anything and everything he wanted. But first, he’d kill his father then his brother, and he’d take their place as lord and master. It felt right. It felt divine.
Then maybe there’d be a place for Absolon.
He hissed at the unwelcome thought. Absolon didn’t belong in a castle. He would not like it.
Neither did Ragnar, but he would endure it for as long as he needed. He would use it as a base from which to conquer lands and kingdoms. Absolon didn’t belong in all that.
It was better that Absolon wasn’t there.
Bette
r for Absolon.
He returned to the tailor in a foul mood made worse by a gloomy day, but the fine clothes improved it. The tailor spouted excuses for any defects and begged to be allowed more time to put them to rights, but Ragnar cut him off. He would return once he had everything he wished for and paid the tailor double his fee, which earned him effusive thanks. Ragnar left in disgust, despite the beautiful cut to the clothes that made him look every bit the noble.
He strutted down the street towards the castle, walking as if he owned the earth beneath his feet and the sky above his head. He stopped at the gate and at soldiers he didn’t recognize. At the door he was permitted into the entry hall by a butler he didn’t know, yet when asked who was being presented, the butler’s eyebrows flicked up at his name.
“I wish to speak to my father.”
The butler begged him wait and scurried off.
The great house echoed much as it had throughout his life, emptied of the love of a mother or a father. Ragnar circled the great hall, spying the paintings that had hung there through much of his adolescence, at the family portraits and the battles extolling Sweden’s victories on sea and land. He’d sat studying the painting of the Battle of Wallhof and saw himself in it, charging out of this hulk of cold stone and into glory for his country and for his family. But his father had always belittled him for those dreams.
The butler returned. “Sir, follow me.”
How many of the staff would he keep? He’d lose all of them if he could. Couldn’t have them becoming suspicious that he was more than a mortal man. He grimaced at the confines he would have to place on himself once more, watching what he said, what he did. Heroes should not be so constrained. He made a promise not to be so. It was being in this house, trapped within its walls full of rules and expectations that sought to bind him. He would not let it. It was just a house.
The butler led him into the drawing room, announced him, and left. But instead of his father, Ragnar was met by his brother, Peder, who stopped his pacing to watch him with trepidation and fear. He didn’t move in for a brotherly hug, and Ragnar kept his distance.
Peder had changed little from the gruff, tall, thin man he’d been when Ragnar left to join the military all those years ago. Five years had passed since he’d seen him, having kept well away from the affairs of Jönköping so he could make his own fortune because he’d been given none to work with.
“Where’s Father?”
Peder cleared his throat and straightened to his full height. “We thought you were dead.”
“I’ve been hearing that a lot. Where is he?”
“He passed away. Around Christmastime.”
His throat constricted. Almost a year. Knowing the bastard was dead carried none of the sweetness of being able to suck that shriveled soul out of his reptilian body. He’d missed his chance. He cracked his neck as rage bubbled up inside him. “Why wasn’t I informed?”
“Would you have cared? We haven’t heard from you in over a year.”
“I was his son,” he said through barely parted teeth. “Of course I would have cared.” He would have been there to ensure his departure.
“I am surprised to hear that considering how little thought you gave him over the years. Foolishly we expected some word from you after your dismissal, but you stayed away. Father thought your shame must have been too great. I think he was relieved.”
He narrowed his eyes and stalked towards Peder. “It’s because of him I was expelled from the military.”
“You led those five hundred men to their slaughter, not Father. The fault is entirely yours.”
“What would you know of battle?” He brushed aside Peder’s judgement, but he couldn’t dispel the pricking at the back of his neck. “You sat in this castle far from strife and grew fat on his blind generosity, while I was out there earning glory for his name.”
Peder scoffed and closed the gap between them to poke his bony, accusing finger into Ragnar’s chest. “Soiling his name, you mean. You ran away to follow your little fantasies, and I stayed here, working for him and my family. I may be first born, but I built my position and proved to him that I was worthy of continuing his line. What are you but a failure?”
Ragnar popped his knuckles. The symbol blazed in the front of his mind like a flaming sword, and he would rip Peder’s soul from him only after he’d tortured the bastard to within an inch of his sanity. He readied his hand to find the naked flesh of his throat. Everything would soon be as it should be with him ruling as head of the family for an eternity.
The door opened and in ran a little girl of no more than four years of age, calling out excitedly for her father. His wife, Kristina, followed behind. She blenched at recognizing him.
Peder scooped up the little girl into his arms, while Kristina hurried to her husband’s side, never once taking her eyes off Ragnar. She sensed the danger they were in even if Peder’s arrogance blinded him to it.
“You remember my brother, Ragnar?” Peder’s happiness shone on his face as he looked upon his child, forgetting about Ragnar as if he was a servant.
“Of course,” she said softly, her hand on her daughter, Peder’s body partially shielding her. “You look well, brother.”
He sneered.
“It’s good to have you home. I know Peder has often wondered how you fared.”
“Not enough to come searching.”
“You’re wrong,” Peder said. “I did enquire after father died, foolishly thinking you should know of his death despite his feelings about you, but you had vanished. I had heard rumors you had become an outlaw, which didn’t surprise me, but I could not track you down.” He sighed. “Brother, I really did try to find you, but I figured if you were still alive, then you did not want to be found. And it seems you have done all right for yourself, if the fine clothes you are wearing are anything to go by.”
He looked down at the fine jacket, at the costume he’d draped over his body in the hope he could finally take his rightful place in this family. If he could bring them glory, then maybe they could love him. But the clothes were a lie.
The only truth was that he didn’t belong in that house. And not because he would never receive the love that he craved, but because it was all spoken for.
When he looked at his brother and his little family, he recognized those shared looks of affection and gentle touches. He had never had that.
Not until Absolon.
The berserker had tried to show him what was there the whole time. He’d even given him the power to achieve all he said he ever wanted. But Absolon’s taunt spoke more truth that he would have wished.
He was Ragnar the Heartless, and he had no one to blame but himself.
The realization cleaved him in two.
What had he achieved in chasing old vengeance? It had brought neither him nor Absolon peace. He had run away from the chance for a love that was truly and freely given, despite all the terrible things he’d done, despite the bad treatment and the cursing and the railing against his lot. How had Absolon put up with him? And what had he shown in return except contempt? The anger drained out of him and the need to feed faded.
“Ragnar? Are you all right?” Peder asked.
“I am.” Or at least he would be once he got back to Absolon. “I have to go.”
“But you just arrived.”
Kristina stepped forward. “Are you sure you won’t stay?” Her hand trembled.
Peder showed no encouragement for her words, only confusion at his change of heart. But Ragnar was done with them. They were no longer his family nor his concern. One day they would die, but not by his hand. And he was at peace with that.
“Quite sure. I can see there is nothing for me here. I won’t bother you again.”
No one stopped him leaving, and once outside, he retrieved his peasant clothes and set course for Absolon. He only hoped he could find his way back.
Chapter 9
Ragnar pushed himself hard in his rush to return to Absolon. T
he land passed in a blur and with the moon hiding her face, he could run on the open road. He retraced his journey, fearful at every moment that he might go the wrong way. He had no name for the village near Absolon’s farm so couldn’t ask a peasant or soldier for directions. All he could trust was that he had remembered the route.
He took over two days to reach the farm, stopping at the boundary where the forest gave way to the field. The ground had turned sodden and muddy from rain, and frost clung to the dirt. The red farmstead had none of the grandeur of the castle he’d come from, nor the riches he’d left behind as if they were nothing but scraps. But it contained Absolon, and that’s all that mattered.
This was where Absolon wanted to be. This was the quiet life that Absolon wanted to have. Here he could lose himself in the fantasy of a working farm filled with animals, a field that grew, was harvested, lay fallow, and grew again. It could give their lives some rhythm beyond the eternal endlessness that was now their lot.
Because they weren’t like mortal men.
And what could mortal men do that they could not overcome?
He crossed the field. On the journey he’d thought a lot about what he would say to win Absolon back. He’d apologize and beg for his forgiveness. He’d tell him he was wrong to leave, that he was weak, and that Absolon had given him so much—both immortality and his heart—that he would be forever grateful. His blood tickled with the thrill of seeing him again, of finally being where he should always have been—by Absolon’s side. As he neared the door, he called out Absolon’s name.
It opened and Absolon filled the frame.
Ragnar’s heart lifted, raising his lips into a smile.
But there was no such happiness on Absolon’s face. “What do you want?” The flatness in his voice had a sharp edge.
This was not going to be as easy as he expected.
He sank down onto his knees and clasped his hands together to plead. “I’ve come back to you. I’ve realized how wrong I was to leave you behind. I ran away. I was scared. But I now know how much you love me and how much you were trying to help me. I’m sorry for leaving like I did. Will you forgive me?”
Warlords, Witches and Wolves: A Fantasy Realms Anthology Page 25