by Anthology
“She is a coy little lass.” Ásmundr rubbed his crooked nose along Æsa’s soft throat. “I venture to say she probably forgot to mention that we were once lovers. That together we were going in search of my father’s hidden silver—you know, the payment that Harold Fairhair bestowed upon Ragnar and his nine cohorts to murder your father. But my father got jealous and banished me before I had a chance to whisk her away to safety. I vowed I would come back for her and kill my father, but it seems you and your men beat me to it. I should extend my gratitude toward you. Alas, I shall refrain from such pleasantries given you stole what was mine.”
“I am not yours!” Æsa screamed. “I never was!”
Ásmundr tightened his arm around her waist and pushed the blade harder against her skin. “I gave you not permission to speak, Æsa. Open your mouth again and I will cut out your tongue!” When she settled down, Ásmundr praised her. “That’s it…there is the obedient thrall I know and love.” His eyes widened and glared at Gustaf. “Before you even think of using that sword in one desperate attempt to save this worthless woman, I suggest you drop it, lest I kill her right now.”
“Gustaf, nay!” Æsa shouted. “He lies. He will not kill me. He needs me. I am the only one who knows where the silver is buried. You know this. He cannot find the silver without my help, else he would have dug it up already.”
Gustaf was torn. What Æsa said made perfect sense, but he wasn’t so certain about Ásmundr or how much he was willing to risk. He knew the man was ruthless and greedy, much like his father. If he were a betting man, he would’ve called his bluff. Ultimately, her life was at stake and he wasn’t willing to take that gamble.
To his surprise, Ásmundr released his hold on Æsa and sheathed his dagger. “What she says is true. I do need her. I cannot find the silver without her. Which means…” he said, drawing out his words on purpose as his eyes came to rest on Gustaf, “I have no use for you.” He locked gazes with the man standing behind Gustaf. “Kill him.”
“Nay!” Æsa ran to Gustaf’s aid, but Ásmundr yanked her back.
Gustaf spun wildly to his left, his sword mowing the legs of his foe like a scythe. The man collapsed without rendering a single injury to Gustaf’s back and screamed in pain at the stubs of bloodied flesh below his knees. Gustaf twirled his sword in his hands, tip downward, and thrust it deep into the suffering man’s chest.
Righting to his feet, Gustaf turned to take on the next man who posed the most threat—the mounted archer. He bent, dodging another sword swing aimed at his head, and snatched a dagger from his boot sheath. With precision and speed, he launched it in a sideways throw. The blade found a home in the archer’s shoulder, sending him off the back of his horse.
From behind, the other adversary jumped from his mount and tackled Gustaf, bringing him to the ground. He grasped the broken arrow sticking out of Gustaf’s shoulder and shoved it inward. Gustaf howled, dropping his sword and elbowing the man in the face. His opponent proved to have a savage doggedness equal to his own and didn’t let go. Instead, the man wrapped his muscled arm around Gustaf’s neck and applied pressure with a clinch he’d be hard put to escape.
Struggling to breathe, Gustaf beat his fists on the man’s head and tore at his eyes, anything to get him to release his chokehold. All his efforts failed and slowly he felt his world going dark. Blackness started to seep in around him and he could do little to stop it.
At the last instant before unconsciousness overtook him, Æsa’s shriek sparked his eyes to flash open. He couldn’t die this way nor could he allow Ásmundr to inflict any more pain on her. He couldn’t let Ásmundr win.
Breathe! he willed himself. Live!
“Please, Ásmundr!” Æsa called in fright. “I will do whatever you want! I will tell you where the silver is buried, but you must let Gustaf live! If you kill him, I will take the secret to my grave! I swear it!”
The arm around Gustaf’s neck dropped, and he crumpled to the ground, gasping for oxygen. He coughed, choked, dragged a sliver of air into his dry, constricted throat, and collapsed in another fit of coughing. In the course of his struggle, he squinted through watery eyes to search for Æsa. He found her on her knees, begging at Ásmundr’s feet.
Gustaf made a solemn promise—he would kill Ásmundr, indeed, but not before he shoved him to his knees. Then and only then would he be satisfied. He wanted to confess his oath for all to hear, to shout it aloud for Ásmundr to know his future fate, but he couldn’t speak any more than he could defend himself against the two men who grabbed him by both arms and hoisted him to his knees.
Ásmundr propelled Æsa backward and approached Gustaf. One of his henchmen confined the warrior by twisting his arms behind him. “You know not when to quit, do you? Do you desire death, Gustaf? I can make it happen.”
Æsa crawled to him. ”Please, Gustaf. Do what he says.”
Gustaf tried to warn her to stay back, but his vocal cords had received too much damage to work. Ásmundr backhanded her and continued to taunt him, despite Gustaf’s attempt to burst free.
“Or perhaps your irrational need to risk your life for her is compelled by a foolish love?” He glanced toward Æsa then looked at Gustaf. “Hmm. I wonder who she would choose. Let us find out.”
Gustaf growled, thrashing at the arms that held him captive.
Ásmundr smiled coldly. “Come here, love.”
Æsa kept her eyes on Gustaf as he shook his head to instill his objection to her obeying. He ground his teeth, hoping she’d just leave him behind and run for her life. He willed her to flee, implored it with every ounce of his being, but she didn’t take flight.
She came to her feet and did as Ásmundr bid her.
Ásmundr crossed his arms and stared at her. “You want him to live?”
Frantically, she nodded.
“Then proclaim your love for me, and he will not die by my hand. Kiss me, like you mean it, and say you love me. That is all you have to do…and I will not kill him.”
Æsa, nay! Gustaf knew Ásmundr would kill him no matter what she did, but he couldn’t bear the sight of her kissing this despicable bastard. He closed his eyes.
Ásmundr turned and saw Gustaf’s attempt to avoid bearing witness to Æsa’s choice. He drew his dagger, pressing it against his throat. “Open your eyes! You will watch this, Gustaf, or I will kill you where you stand!”
“Nay, Ásmundr!” Æsa pleaded as she cried aloud. “Please. I will do as you ask.”
With the blade at Gustaf’s neck, he gestured Æsa forward with his free hand. “Say you love me.”
Æsa squeezed her eyes shut as if to practice her words in her own mind first. “I love you, Ásmundr.”
“Now, kiss me like you mean it,” Ásmundr demanded. “And if I so much as feel one hint of revulsion from your lips, I shall gut your Gustaf like a fish.”
She hesitated for a second longer than Ásmundr would tolerate. “Choose, Æsa! Me—or him! Make your choice!”
Æsa stepped into Ásmundr’s arms, tentative and slow. She placed her hands upon his chest and stared into the eyes of Gustaf’s most hated enemy. Inside, he screamed. His blood boiled through his veins, as he watched Æsa lean into Ásmundr’s embrace and kiss him. Together, they shared tongues like long lost lovers and he thought he might vomit.
The knife at his neck slipped away and Gustaf hung his head in defeat. Æsa had played the part and sacrificed her dignity to spare his life. Or so she was meant to believe. Gustaf knew better.
“You chose well, Æsa. Now where is the silver?
“Ragnar said he buried it in the land where you were born.”
Ásmundr fell into his thoughts and mumbled. “Tromsø…he buried it in Tromsø. All these years…” His eyes glinted with urgency. “We haven’t much time. Soon the sun will cease to rise where we are going.” He propelled Æsa forward. “Quickly. Mount up. I will not let the polar night keep me from finding Ragnar’s plunder.”
Æsa dragged her feet, refusing to leave Gusta
f behind. Consumed with impatience, Ásmundr shoved against her back and enforced his authority by throwing her up onto the horse himself.
Gustaf stared at her, knowing she believed in Ásmundr’s promise. He would let her believe it, for he didn’t want her to witness his death. In a look of reassurance, he mouthed the words, ’Tis all right. Go. I will find you at Tromsø, if the gods decree.
Tears filled her eyes as she continued to gaze at him in his subservient position. His heart split in two watching her die inside for the decision she had no choice but to make. He’d not hold it against her. She loved him and only him, and though her words of undying love had been bequeathed to another, he knew where her heart truly lay.
Love had bound them together in a way no man could sever—not even Ásmundr. Like her, he’d sacrifice everything to keep her safe, even if it meant his own life. He saw Ásmundr secretly hand his dagger to the man at Gustaf’s right.
The bastard mounted behind Æsa with a casual, arrogant air and snuggled up close to her. “We shall wait for you north of Lillehammer,” Ásmundr said.
“Aye, m’lord.”
Gustaf watched Ásmundr trot away. All the fight and vigor that once filled Gustaf was now gone. He looked down at his wounds. Dark crimson patches stained his breeches and tunic, draining his strength as he bled. The man chosen for the deed released his arm and stood like a towering wall of stone before him. Gustaf closed his eyes and prepared himself for the dagger that would plunge between his ribs.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Øyven gazed over the crowd of villagers in the mead hall as he sat on an outlying bench away from the noise, the dancing, and the joyous commotion. He was in no mood to join in, for his chieftain had yet to return from his ride with Æsa. Gustaf had promised he would not miss the feast and he would never break an oath. His absence was clearly out of the norm but went unnoticed by the celebrating villagers who ate and drank in gluttonous proportions.
No longer able to endure his fretting thoughts, he made his way toward Halldora resting comfortably by the fire in the central hearth. If anyone knew Gustaf’s whereabouts, it was she.
Wise, silver eyes locked on him before he reached her, and she smiled as if to enjoy his overzealous concern. He sat beside her on the bench and regarded her carefully. “You know what brings me to you.”
“Aye,” Halldora said, her voice creaky and frail. “But I cannot help you. Gustaf has either found a way to keep his mind empty or he has traveled beyond the perimeter of the stones to keep me from his thoughts whilst he makes amends with his woman.”
“You cannot hear anything?” Øyven implored.
“Naught pertaining to Gustaf.” She laid her boney hand upon his. “Worry not. I am certain he will return soon.”
Øyven sighed and tried to let the old woman’s words soothe his worried soul but to no avail. He was not usually one to assume the worst, like Snorri, but he couldn’t help think that Gustaf might be in trouble.
“The only trouble Gustaf finds,” Halldora answered for him, “is avoiding temptation where his dearest Æsa is concerned. If I were you, I would respect his wish for privacy. Obviously, he has gone to great lengths to keep me out of his affairs, so I would assume that goes for you as well.”
Øyven accepted Halldora’s advice but wasn’t satisfied. If anything, he needed to remove himself from the heat of the congested mead hall. Nodding his thanks, he squeezed the old woman’s hand and left.
Stepping out into the cool night air, he glanced around the quiet settlement. Rows of empty longhouses lined each side of the mead hall while a group of servants continued to roast the remainder of the bear on a spit. Even they were oblivious to the fact that the very man who’d killed the animal was not around to commemorate the successful hunt.
Again, he tried to banish his apprehensive thoughts and decided to venture toward the stables. Caring for animals often left him with a sense of solace. They were not loud and obnoxious like some people he knew and never complained about the rigors of daily life. Horses especially held their emotions in check and accepted even the slightest of attention from a kind human.
Entering the stable, he stopped short to find Helga standing outside the stall door, petting his horse. She turned and gasped.
“Forgive me,” Øyven said apologetically. “I did not know you were here.”
Helga rubbed her arms. “I hope you do not mind that I fed and watered your horse. The others have been turned out to graze, but I was told you wanted yours stalled.”
Øyven approached her, the thought of Halldora slipping into his thoughts. For that invasion, he regarded the distance between them and made certain he didn’t stand too close. “Are there not stable hands for this sort of labor?”
She nodded and let her head fall shyly. “Aye, but I enjoy helping.”
Øyven noticed how much she trembled. “You are cold. Here,” he offered, removing his cloak and draping it around her shoulders.
“Thank you.”
Her kind eyes met his and he forgot all about Halldora. Before he realized, he reached up and touched the bashful girl’s cheek. “You are so beautiful.”
Upon his compliment, she stepped back from his touch, reminding him of his presumptuous actions. She was young and they were alone in a very dark stable, not exactly the most appropriate place to offer words of seduction.
“Would you like to join me in the mead hall?” Øyven asked, gesturing outside the barn.
“I would like that very much.”
“I expect your grandmother would prefer that as well.”
Helga giggled ever so quietly and took his arm.
He had to admit he loved her timid laughter, although he knew Halldora might not approve. He understood why the old woman was so protective of the girl, for she was strikingly pleasing to the eye. Her hair was like spun silk, as golden as the blazing sun. Her eyes were like sapphires, polished and sparkling and edged with a rim of long, ebony lashes. Her lips were full and alluring, her nose small and straight. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought her to be the daughter of the goddess, Freyja.
“Why did you leave the feast to come to the stables?” Helga finally asked, interrupting his thoughts.
He cleared his head and recalled his missing chieftain. “Gustaf and Æsa have not returned.”
“And this worries you?”
“Aye. Gustaf assured me he would—”
From his peripheral vision, Øyven caught sight of a riderless horse careening in from the forest. It trotted several yards in front of them through the settlement and halted in the field where the other horses grazed.
“Odin’s blood,” Øyven uttered as he and Helga raced to catch up with the animal. His heart kicked up in rhythm as he verified the animal was indeed his chieftain’s. He slowed his steps and soothed the agitated horse with his voice before snagging the reins. Inspecting the animal for signs of injury, he found the only thing ailing it was mild exhaustion.
All his greatest fears were confirmed. Gustaf would never forget to tether his horse, but what caused the animal to sprint away without him?
He turned to Helga and mounted the horse without hesitation. “I need you to fetch Jørgen and Snorri from the mead hall. Tell them Gustaf is in danger.”
“What are you going to do?” Helga inquired as trepidation constricted her voice.
“I am going in search of him. Hurry!”
****
Øyven made a mad dash in the direction from where the horse had come. He tore through the forest, knowing he had to go beyond the perimeter of the rune stones to find Gustaf and Æsa. Galloping along, he called for them, dread filling his heart the longer he traveled without hearing a reply.
He ran for what seemed like an eternity until, like a beacon, the boundary of the flat, carved stones shone under the moonlit sky. He urged the horse onward, hurdling over them so as not to disrupt the spell. As soon as its hooves touched ground, he pulled back, shocked by the gruesome sight that ta
inted the forest floor. The animal skidded to a sudden halt, neighing and stamping.
Øyven could not believe his eyes.
A horse with a gaping wound across its chest lay dead and steaming, its eyes hauntingly open. A man he didn’t recognize lay sprawled and hacked in two, his legs horrifically severed from his body. The coppery smell of blood saturated the eerie scene and an alarming sense of fear overtook him.
“Gustaf!” he yelled, his own voice echoing back at him. “Æsa! Where are you?”
Searching further beyond the carnage, Øyven saw another body, facedown, unmoving. His entire body recoiled when he identified the thick gray wolf-skin cloak on the man’s back. He didn’t want to believe it was his chieftain and friend lying dead amongst the others.
Reluctantly, Øyven dismounted and stared at the crumpled body. His stomach rolled, sickened by the possibility that he’d found Gustaf, but moments too late. He stepped forward, his feet heavy. His heart turned sluggish in his chest, his lungs labored to exchange air through his gaping mouth. A sour taste poisoned his tongue.
Was he too late? He’d never forgive himself if he was. He should’ve listened to his gut and went searching for him long before now. Perhaps he could’ve prevented this, or at least come to his aid.
Each step closer was harder than the last. When he stood over the body, he closed his eyes as he knelt, mentally preparing himself for the worst.
He carefully rolled the body over and Gustaf’s pale face gleamed amid the shadows of the forest. His chieftain’s eyes shot open at the same time he gasped for air.
“Gustaf!” Øyven exclaimed, stunned. “You are alive!” His hands shook as he cradled his chieftain in his lap, his eyes scanning the wounds, the blood, and the broken arrows that protruded from his body. “Who did this? Where is Æsa?”
Æsa’s name resounded on Gustaf’s lips in a listless whisper.
“Aye, Æsa,” Øyven encouraged. “Where is she?”
Gustaf closed his eyes and swallowed, trying desperately to answer. “Taken. Ásmundr.”