Fall in Love

by Anthology

  “Is that so?” He removed his dagger from his belt and began admiring it. The blade was well-honed and shiny, as if he’d just sharpened it. “Snow begins to fall. And thus, the more it blankets the earth, the harder ’twill be to recognize landmarks. Are you certain this is what you want to do? Delay the inevitable?”

  “I know I do not want to die.” As she labored to speak, her stomach heaved. Unable to hold it back, she vomited anew, gagging as yellow bile spewed from her mouth.

  Ásmundr growled and sheathed his knife, standing to pace the floor as she tried to settle herself on the hard floor. His strides, measured and deliberate, stomped off a harrowing rhythm in her head. She knew he was only doing so to intimidate her, to make her understand he was not below torture and that he’d employ whatever means necessary to gain her compliance.

  Afraid he’d start soon, she tried another amiable approach. “I trust you have kept yourself busy while I have been face-down in a pot. Have you enjoyed your visit in your homeland?”

  Ásmundr accepted her small talk, though it didn’t go without suspicion. “I have. ’Twas nice to visit my mother’s grave after all these years.”

  Fighting another bout of heaves, she pressed on. “How did she die?”

  Ásmundr’s feet came to a halt, and his eyes swiveled in her direction. “My father killed her.”

  An unsuspecting tinge of pity clutched at her heart. Though she abhorred Ásmundr, she knew his coldhearted nature undoubtedly stemmed from being raised by an even more coldhearted sire. She couldn’t help thinking he might have turned out differently had he been born into a loving household. “I am sorry.”

  “What do you care?” Ásmundr barked, resuming his threatening to and fro steps.

  “I know how cruel Ragnar was. I can only imagine the pain you went through as a child, knowing your own flesh and blood murdered your mother.”

  Ásmundr scoffed. “Would you like to know why he killed her?”

  Æsa knew the question was completely rhetorical and waited for him to offer up the gruesome details, terrified her vomiting would recommence thereafter.

  “He killed her because she tried to protect me. She’d made attempts to dissolve their marriage on the grounds that he was an unfit father and went as far as to plead her case to the annual council. Behind his back, she implored the help of the neighboring chieftains who met to provide just rulings for public disputes and private affairs. In fact, Gustaf’s father, Rælik, was one of those who ruled in favor of her. After killing her, Ragnar pretended to be the grieving husband and erected a beautifully carved rune stone in her honor so no one would suspect him of murder. Incidentally, when Harold Fairhair petitioned him and nine others to get rid of a few powerful and persuasive chieftains, Rælik included, he jumped at the chance.”

  Æsa’s stomach now turned over for other reasons. It was bad enough she shared a bed with the man who’d killed Gustaf’s father, but to know Ragnar played such a personal part in Rælik’s demise sent her insides into a hot burn. She heaved one more time.

  Ásmundr seemed to notice her struggle, but kept on anyway. “Knowing my father, he would have gladly done the deed without payment, but he was rewarded nonetheless. And you…” He suddenly dropped to his knees before her, grabbed a handful of her hair, and yanked her face from the pot. He pulled his knife from its sheath with his other hand and placed the point of his dagger against her throat. “…will help me find it, or so help me Odin, I will slit your throat from ear to ear. Do you understand?”

  She slowly nodded her head and hoped he’d release his hold in her hair before her stomach decided to disgorge its contents all other his cloak.

  “Ragnar took everything from me when he killed my mother in cold blood! I deserve to find that silver. ’Twill be mine!”

  Withdrawing his knife, he threw her sideways and marched back outside. Tears burned in her eyes as she lay on the dirt floor. She curled up in a ball and wrapped her arms around her belly, hugging the tiny baby that lived within.

  In that moment, she understood the drastic measures Ásmundr’s mother had gone through to protect her son and the sheer terror she must have felt living with Ragnar.

  A generation later, Æsa now dwelled in that woman’s shoes as she’d looked her son in the eye. It all made sense.

  For Ragnar, it was not about hiding the silver so no one could find it. It was about vengeance and settling a score. Ásmundr claimed to have known his father well, but it seemed she knew him better. She knew exactly where Ragnar had buried the blood money used to kill Rælik—it was undoubtedly placed beneath the earth alongside Ásmundr’s mother.

  ****

  A sennight later, Ásmundr burst through the door again, his eyes narrow slits, his stance threatening. The light of the morning sun reflected off the bright white snow behind him, piercing her tired eyes. A gust of cold air filled the already drafty room.

  She had difficulty sitting up. Her body was stiff from lying on a hard floor for so long and her energy was depleted from her constant morning sickness. Whatever scraps of food Ásmundr had given her when he felt generous only came back up hours later. For her baby, she tried to keep some nourishment down, but the nausea was so great at times, she’d get sick at even the thought of drinking water.

  Ásmundr stalked toward her and kicked the bucket across the room. “On your feet, whore. I can wait no more.”

  With all her might, Æsa labored to erect herself from the floor, but her tumbling stomach protested. Ásmundr snatched a hank of her hair and jerked her upright.

  “Enough of this, Æsa. You are not ill.”

  She wanted to argue differently, but thought better. Nothing she could say would make him believe. Her reprieve, if one could call it that, was over.

  He dragged her by the hair out the door, the concerned faces of his three men greeting her with guarded stares.

  “My lord, she does not look well.”

  “Shut up, Grimr! She is fine. She is but faking.” Fist still buried in her hair, he led her around the dilapidated shack and shoved her toward the wintry blue water of the strait. “See to your ablutions and make it quick.”

  She trudged through the ankle-deep snow, the frigid air biting into her skin. She pulled her fur cloak tighter around her and watched her breath hang like fog in the air. The serenity of the snow-covered landscape fortified by towering jagged mountains taunted her. The clear cerulean channel fenced her in like a frigid watery palisade. There was no escape.

  Conceding her fate had been sealed and the odds of surviving Ásmundr’s wrath were but zero, she crouched at the water’s edge and offered up one final prayer to Odin. She hoped the Almighty could hear her, for she feared even the gods would not set foot in this tundra-cursed hell.

  As her warm tears began to freeze upon her cheeks, she heard the shrill cry of a bird. Lazily, she gazed up into the sky and saw the outspread wings of a hovering falcon, gracefully circling above her. It was a strange and beautiful sight to see a lone bird venture to such a harsh place. No animal in its right mind would migrate north. Food was too scarce and buried in the snow.

  For a moment, she forgot all about Ásmundr and continued to watch the path of the gliding raptor. She shadowed her brow with her hand, gazing into the brilliant sky at the silhouetted bird. To her surprise, it dove toward her.

  She fell back on her haunches as the falcon flapped and fluttered about wildly. It squawked and beat its wings, trying to perch. With wide eyes, she tentatively held out her hand and offered her arm. The brown and black patterned falcon landed and settled itself on her shoulder.

  Æsa knew this falcon, but couldn’t believe her eyes. Tied around the bird’s skinny leg was a scrap of white embroidered fabric.

  Her stitched and sewn cloth.

  Her gift to Gustaf.

  Quickly, before Ásmundr noticed, she untied the material and stuffed it in her sleeve. She gazed around, but saw no one. No one but Ásmundr and his three brutes.

  Her heart
leapt in her chest, and her body trembled uncontrollably. Had Gustaf’s men come to save her? Better yet, had Gustaf cheated death and come to seek his vengeance?

  She wanted to scream his name, call out to him and hear his blessed gruff voice in her ears. But she held her tongue.

  As she encouraged the falcon to take flight, the thunderous beat of horses’ hooves rumbled over the frozen land beneath her. Her breath caught in her lungs upon seeing a swarm of mounted hirdmen racing down the hill. Although helmeted and completely draped with wolf-skin cloaks, their fierce determination distinguished them as her gallant rescuers.

  Ásmundr and his men had already begun to scramble. Out of the ten daunting warriors, one drew his bow and took careful aim. The arrow sliced through the air and sunk deep into Grimr’s shoulder, propelling him on his backside.

  “Stand your ground!” Ásmundr bellowed, unsheathing his sword. But like the coward he was, he deserted his men and ran toward Æsa.

  She gathered her skirts and tried to forge through the snow, but his legs proved to be faster and stronger. Grabbing her around the waist, he dragged her flailing body back toward the shelter of the shack.

  “Get inside!” he demanded of Grimr.

  Æsa wailed and screamed. She fought to break free of Ásmundr’s hold, but he was able to haul her energy-deprived body to the door. Another arrow marked for his head careened into the outside wall of the house, stopping him in his tracks. He ducked below it and shuffled through the door, shielding himself with Æsa’s body. Grimr followed, ordering the last two men to hold their positions, and slammed the door behind him.

  Struck with fear, Æsa listened to the sounds on the other side. Shouts, neighing horses, and the clashing of iron resounded through the weathered wood as if it were but sheer linen separating them from the gruesome scene outside. Outnumbered five to one, their struggle to defend Ásmundr did not last long. The harrowing screams of dying men was the last thing Æsa heard before Ásmundr jerked her back to the far wall and rammed his knife up under her chin.

  “You want to live, Æsa? Then call off Gustaf’s men!”

  Chapter Thirty

  Gustaf stared at the two worthless men who lay dead at his feet. He almost pitied them for their blind servitude to such a selfish coward. Essentially, Ásmundr had left them to die, for there was no way a pair of insufficiently armed men could triumph over ten mounted warriors with shields, swords, and bows.

  The small victory felt good on his vengeful heart, but it was the success of killing Ásmundr he longed to attain. Through the eyeholes of his helmet, he glowered at the rickety door before him. He dreaded knowing what had gone on between Æsa and Ásmundr in this pitiful shanty, but gladly used his suspicions as fuel to the hot fire of his anger.

  As he stood brooding, his blood coursed through his veins and his pulse raged in his ears. All the pain he’d felt from his injuries vanished. Adrenaline had gushed into his bloodstream with the onset of their charge and numbed him from head to toe. Even now, as he gathered his wits and settled his hammering heart, he felt nothing but sheer fury. His hands shook with it.

  In silence, he gestured toward the two dead and motioned for them to be dragged away. Snorri and Ketill obliged, but Jørgen grabbed hold of Gustaf’s arm before he prepared to kick open the door.

  Keeping his voice low, Jørgen offered his services. “Let me do this.”

  Gustaf shook his head, not wanting to spoil the surprise he had planned for Ásmundr.

  “You are injured.”

  “Jørgen?” Æsa’s shaky voice emitted from inside. “Is that you?”

  Gustaf heart jumped in his throat and he nodded toward Jørgen, permitting him to answer.

  “Aye, Æsa. ’Tis me. We have come for you.”

  “Nay!” she shouted in desperation. “Please, do not come in here. Ásmundr promises to kill me if you do.”

  Her frightened voice sent chills down Gustaf’s spine. He knew Ásmundr meant what he said.

  With a nod, Gustaf encouraged Jørgen to keep her talking, while he signaled the others to surround the place. Each man did as he was bid, working together like experienced warriors who knew how to secure a stronghold.

  “Æsa, I am coming—”

  “Nay, Jørgen, nay! Please do as he says! He has a knife…and he will slit my throat. He will! He will! Please.”

  Gustaf could stand it no more. He affirmed his grip on his sword and kicked open the door. It crashed and splintered to pieces as he stepped inside.

  “Watch out!” Æsa cried, trying to warn him of Grimr who lurked in the shadows.

  Gustaf took a blow to the head and fell to his knees, the sound of Grimr’s sword echoing like a loud clang inside his helmet. He shook it off and tackled the man around his knees. The two tumbled to the floor, throwing punches in a wild frenzy, but Gustaf soon gained the upper hand. He rolled on top and sent a solid fist straight into the man’s nose.

  Blood spewed as Grimr fought to defend himself.

  In a battle to regain their swords, they sprawled across the floor and grappled to recover their weapons before the other. They jumped to their feet and iron clashed in a frantic effort to hack their opponent in two. Gustaf dodged a decapitating blow and spun, slicing Grimr’s thigh wide open.

  The man collapsed and writhed in pain. Æsa’s cry of terror pierced Gustaf’s ears, but he paid no heed. He double fisted his sword above his head and delivered the fatal thrust through Grimr’s heart.

  Swiveling his head, he set his sights on Ásmundr who had already begun to make threats upon Æsa. He watched as the dagger inched closer under her jaw, the blade depressing her delicate skin.

  “Jørgen,” Ásmundr warned, adjusting his body behind Æsa’s. “Think about what you are doing. One move in my direction and I will spill her blood!”

  Gustaf scoffed inside, enjoying that Ásmundr had no idea who he was talking to. Like a fool, he believed him to be Jørgen and that Gustaf was dead and gone from this earth.

  “I mean what I say, Jørgen. Put your sword down!”

  “I have not a sword,” Jørgen interrupted from the open doorway, his bow nocked and drawn. Without hesitation, he released the arrow.

  Ásmundr cried out as it pierced the shoulder left exposed by holding the dagger at Æsa’s throat. He staggered backward, his blade no longer a threat. Æsa fell to the floor in a heap and scrambled to get away from him.

  Gustaf rushed to her and pulled her to her feet. “Get her out of here,” he commanded Jørgen.

  Upon hearing his voice, Æsa’s eyes widened in recognition. Uncontrollable joy mixed with untamed fear laced her face as she stared in disbelief.

  “Go,” he nodded in reassurance.

  As soon as Æsa was safely outside, Gustaf approached his foe. The man actually had the audacity to unsheathe his sword with an inept left hand and threaten him.

  Gustaf could see that in his panicked state he was still wondering who was behind the helmet. With one swipe of his sword, he disarmed Ásmundr and forced him to his knees. Holding the tip of his blade at Ásmundr’s sternum, he removed his helmet and tossed it aside.

  “It cannot be,” Ásmundr muttered in utter bewilderment. “But how? Grimr killed you.”

  Gustaf glanced back at Grimr’s dead body. It was apparent Ásmundr, still in shock, was clueless to the obvious. “As you can see, Grimr tried—twice—and failed.”

  “Wait!” Ásmundr spat forth as soon as Gustaf readied his sword for the final plunge. “The silver! I will let you have it. It can all be yours.”

  Gustaf scoffed, appalled that even as the ingrate looked death in the eye, he thought he could barter his way free with his father’s blood money. Gustaf refused to give this eel scum the satisfaction of a reply. Instead, he adjusted his hands on the hilt.

  The man trembled as he realized Gustaf’s intent. Perspiration broke out above his brow and his breaths came in deep, sporadic huffs. “Surely there is some mercy left in your soul. A fragment of temperance, perha
ps?”

  Gustaf froze upon the word choice. His mind swarmed with images of Æsa stroking his temple, kissing his lips, and whispering her pet name in his ears. The sound of her sweet voice melted the tension from his rigid body.

  But his visions soon turned heinous. Her cries of pain, her screams of terror all reminded him of what this bastard had done to her. What he’d done to him…all so he could get his greedy hands on a stash of silver which had paid for the murder of Gustaf’s father.

  He looked Ásmundr in the eye, his temper flaring as an inferno raged inside him. Thoughts of his injuries incurred by the orders of this man, the nightmare to which he had subjected Æsa, and the unborn child that could have died as a result of his abuse overwhelmed any thoughts of mercy. “If I have any temperance left, know ’tis only reserved for those who deserve it.” And with one final thrust, Gustaf brought an end to his torment.

  Ásmundr’s body flinched when the broad blade speared through his chest. Bones snapped and blood gushed from his mouth. Justice had been served.

  Gustaf placed his booted foot upon Ásmundr’s lifeless corpse and withdrew his weapon, closing his eyes to the wicked image in his head.

  “Gustaf!” Æsa called from behind him.

  Slowly, he looked at her. Her clothes were tattered and torn. Her face was ashen in color, highlighting an ugly bruise on her left eye. Her lips were chapped and her hair fell around her shoulders in a tangled, matted mess. Despite the unsightliness of her appearance, Gustaf could not help thinking she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She was alive and that was all that mattered.

  He ran to her and swept her up in his arms. He buried his face in her hair and held her as close as he could without hurting her or the child within her womb. During his long journey to find her, he’d feared he would not be blessed with this moment. That he might be too late to save his dearest Æsa. Breathing her in and feeling her tight embrace around his neck, proved that he’d won the day.

  He hoped his father looked down on him with pride.