Black Monastery

by Stacey, William

  “I…”

  “Wait. Don’t bother answering. There’s still a hole in Sea Eel big enough for a frost giant to stick its cock through—and no mast. How did you plan on getting home at all?”

  “It’s a fishing village. They have ships.”

  Asgrim groaned and ran his hands over his face, then back through his hair. He sighed and shook his head. “Fishing boats? You were going to sail into northern waters in fishing boats?”

  “Just… just along the coast, close to the shoreline.”

  “You and all your slaves? In an armada of small fishing boats?”

  “It seemed like a good plan,” said Harald in a small voice.

  Asgrim shook his head again, cut off another chunk of apple, and popped it into his mouth. He chewed as he spoke. “You’re too fucking stupid to be in charge, Harald. You know that now, right?”

  The other man stared at his feet again, and they sat there in silence for a few moments.

  “So what happened to this grand plan of yours to sail your fishing fleet and all your slaves?”

  The color drained from Harald’s face. “Everything. Frankish soldiers were waiting for us at the village, a war party—with horses. We stumbled right into them, came out of the woods expecting to find farmers and fishermen… and women to plow. Instead, we ran into warriors. They were even already in a shield wall, with archers on the roofs of the village huts. We tried to form our own wall, but the men on horseback kept hitting us from behind. We… I couldn’t get the men organized. They wouldn’t give us a chance.”

  Heat rushed into Asgrim’s face, and he forced himself to breathe deeply. No scouts? They had sent no scouts forward first? Had his crew wanted to die? Asgrim could understand the young, inexperienced ones being that stupid, but the others should have said something.

  “Where were your scouts? What happened to Steiner?” He ground his teeth, tensing, fighting to control his anger. Steiner was a good man. “Did you kill him, too?”

  “No. He’s alive.” Harald paused. His eyes met Asgrim’s for only a moment before looking away again. “At least he was. He tried to talk me out of going to the village, but I… wouldn’t listen to him. I thought he was still loyal to you, not me. I told him to shut it, or I’d kill him.”

  Embarrassment filled Harald’s voice. He closed his eyes and nodded. So they had walked right into an ambush set by Frankish soldiers, not peasants.

  “The young ones broke first,” continued Harald. “Then it all just went to shit, with everyone running to save their own skin. We just… fell apart… all at once.”

  Asgrim shook his head. He had fought in enough shield walls to understand exactly what had happened. If cohesion and discipline held, the fighting could go on and on, with neither side suffering too badly—until one side broke. Then it became a slaughter. The hairs on his skin stood straight, and a chill ran through him just thinking about it. They may have betrayed him, but they were still his men. He had brought them to this. And besides, not all of them had participated in the mutiny.

  “And you?” he asked.

  “In the confusion, I… I managed to reach the trees. Hid.”

  “The others?”

  Harald’s face went scarlet with shame. “I don’t think so. The horses.”

  “Prisoners?”

  “Some… maybe most. I saw them with their hands in the air. But I don’t know if—”

  Asgrim jabbed his knife at him. “You know you really screwed up, Harald. You get that, right?”

  Harald’s silence was answer enough.

  Asgrim finished the apple and threw the core away from him.

  “I… I didn’t mean for this…” Harald said. “What do you think the Franks will do with them? Slaves?”

  Asgrim snorted. “I don’t know, Harald. Probably. Or they’ll kill them for sport. Whatever does happen, that’s on you now.”

  Harald, still staring at his feet, nodded slowly. Asgrim suspected he had already come to that realization. At least he had the good sense to feel badly about what he had done.

  Asgrim looked away into the trees, considering his options. Really only one choice was left to him. His mind made up, he rose and came at Harald, his long-knife in hand. Harald’s eyes widened in fear, and he tried to crawl away, but didn’t get anywhere before Asgrim grabbed him and threw him onto his belly, putting his knee on his back to hold him in place.

  “Please,” Harald said. “Not like this. At least put a weapon in my hand.”

  “No,” said Asgrim. “No easy way out for you, oath-breaker.”

  Harald closed his eyes, and Asgrim slashed the bonds over his wrists. Then he got up and sat down again, his back against a tree, watching Harald. The other man rolled over, sat up, and rubbed his wrists, staring at Asgrim in confusion.

  “There’s some food in the hut, not much, but enough,” said Asgrim. “The woman who lived here was alone.” He glanced away, not wishing to let Harald see his face. “Take whatever you find. You’ll need your strength.”

  “Why?” Harald asked.

  “Because we have some Franks to kill.”

  Fourteen

  The village,

  August 7, 799,

  Near midnight

  A dark, moonless night blanketed the countryside as Asgrim and Harald silently slipped toward the village. They moved slowly, cautiously, approaching the village from the woods and making sure they avoided the outlying farms, which would have dogs. They had to leave the darkness of the forest and make for a series of hills and ridges along the seaward side of the village, where the hills would provide cover from winter storms.

  Asgrim glanced at Harald, now just a dark shadow beside him, and then moved on toward the higher ground from which he intended to reconnoiter the village. They were very close to the village. Asgrim could smell the farm animals on the wind and see where the land had been cleared by human hands. And then, from nearby, he heard a horse snort, and both men froze in place. Asgrim could just make out Harald’s white eyes in the darkness, and he slowly reached out, placed a hand on the other man’s shoulder, and guided him down toward the dirt. Both men dropped to their bellies just as two Franks on horseback appeared from the direction of the village, coming straight toward them. The sound of the riders’ laughter and conversation drifted down to where the two men hid. Asgrim slowly drew his long-knife. The riders came closer, still chatting away in Frankish. Their horses’ hooves thumped against the stony ground, echoing in the night. Asgrim tensed, ready to rise and go for the closest rider if need be. But both riders passed by without noticing them, coming so close that Asgrim could have reached out and gripped a hoof had he wished to.

  Thank the gods for dark nights. Had there been a moon, they would have been seen for certain.

  The riders were Frankish soldiers. Even in the darkness, he had made out their weapons: spears, swords, and shields. He had no doubt they also wore leather armor. Such men wouldn’t break easily in a shield wall. These two were almost certainly a mounted patrol. On the other hand, instead of watching their surroundings carefully and doing their job, they had ridden right past the two men while chatting like women. Perhaps they felt that with the main force of Vikings defeated, they no longer had anything to fear on this island.

  He shook his head in wonder. There was nothing but danger on the island. That type of arrogance would cost them this night.

  When they were certain the patrol was well past, Asgrim and Harald climbed back to their feet and quickly covered the remaining ground toward the rocky slope of the hills that surrounded the village. As they moved up the incline, the ground became uneven, treacherous, and dotted by rugged bushes. Several times, they slipped on loose rocks, sending pebbles cascading down the slope behind them, and each time, Asgrim was certain they would be heard by someone, a hidden sentry or dog. But their luck held out, and they continued undetected. After a few minutes, they reached a suitable vantage point and sat down to catch their breath and observe the darkened village
below them.

  At first, it was too black to make out anything but the rough outline of several buildings, but then the clouds drifted away, momentarily letting the moon’s weak glow reveal the village. No one moved about below, and most of the village was dark and silent. This was to be expected, especially so late at night. Only the rich had enough silver to buy candles and torches for light at night. Farmers went to sleep when the sun went down. To the south, where the hills abruptly dropped off, Asgrim could just make out a long smooth beach that held the villagers’ collection of little fishing boats, the largest only several ells in length, with a single, pathetic mast.

  This sad little fleet had been Harald’s great plan? Asgrim turned and glared at Harald, who quickly looked away in embarrassment. Sighing, Asgrim turned back to examine the village. It was smattered with some larger wattle-and-daub longhouses, and most of the thirty or so dwellings that comprised the village were poor, earthen-walled sunken huts; however, one of the homes near the center of the village stood apart from the others. It was a large, two-storied building with a thatched roof—obviously the manor house of the local authority or tribal leader. Next to this home, the Frankish soldiers had established their camp. Tents and smoldering campfires sat in tight lines in a nearby field. Around each campfire, men sat, talking and laughing. The Franks’ horses, twenty or so, were penned near the camp. What drew Asgrim’s attention, however, was the large barn beside the manor house.

  Two soldiers stood guard in front of this building. If his men were still alive, that was where they would be.

  “I count ten fires,” Harald whispered.

  Asgrim nodded. “Let’s say eight to ten Franks for each fire, maybe a hundred soldiers.”

  “And their leaders in the manor house.”

  “Aye,” said Asgrim.

  “The farmers might join in, as well.”

  “They might.”

  “We can’t do this thing. It’s impossible,” Harald said with a slight tremor in his voice.

  “Courage, oath-breaker. The gods are watching.” Asgrim reached over and squeezed Harald’s forearm as he pointed toward the barn beside the manor house. “Look there.”

  The two guards stepped aside as the barn’s double doors swung open, allowing beams of light to escape from inside. Two Frankish soldiers with bare chests dragged a man out of the barn. The man’s naked feet trailed along the dirt. His head hung down, unmoving. A third Frankish soldier holding a torch followed them.

  “Who is that?” whispered Harald.

  Asgrim shook his head. “Whoever it is, he’s dead now.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  The soldiers threw the man’s body into a ditch beside the barn. It rolled to a stop atop other corpses. The ditch was filled with corpses.

  Asgrim closed his eyes and concentrated on taking deep breaths. His men, his men. He had sworn to protect them. When he felt he could speak again, he whispered, “I’m sure.”

  The men turned and went back into the barn, closing the door behind them. The screams coming from inside the barn cut across the dark night.

  Asgrim put his head closer to Harald’s. “I don’t care if it’s impossible. I don’t care how many of them there are. We’re going to go down there and free our friends. Then we’re going to kill those Frankish soldiers. We’re going to keep killing them until they break and run. If the farmers join in, we’ll kill them, too. In fact, anything or anyone that gets in our way dies.”

  Their eyes locked, and Harald nodded. “Aye.”

  “Okay,” said Asgrim, “here’s what we’re going to do.”

  * * *

  Hours later, when the village and camp were fast asleep, the two men made their move. As if by the providence of the gods, a light fog had drifted in from the sea, providing cover for them. They approached the village from the seaward side, avoiding the farms and the inevitable dogs. Asgrim had grown up hunting and fishing, often for days at a time. When he wanted to, he could move as silently as a forest animal, and he did so this night, drifting from brush to tree like a shadow. Together, they silently slipped into the village.

  They made for the barn. Asgrim didn’t know how many of his men had survived the battle and been taken prisoner by the Franks, but he would save whomever he could. He hoped only two men still guarded the barn.

  They slipped past the manor house, coming up on the barn from behind. At the rear of the structure, they split up, slipping around it on either side. Trying to peer through a crack, Asgrim paused next to the barn’s wall. The interior was too dark for him see anything, but he heard the snores and rustling of numerous men.

  He made his way to the front of the building, forcing himself to move slowly, carefully rolling his weight onto the outer edge of his foot. And, with each step, he paused and listened for any indication the guards had heard him. Closing in on the sentries seemed to take forever, but speed was the death of silence.

  At the corner of the barn, he lowered himself into a crouch and peered around the wall. This close, he could just make out the guards in the mist. One man sat on a stump of wood, holding his spear against his bobbing head. The other sat in the dirt, leaning against the wall of the barn; his chin rested against his chest, he snored softly. His spear lay on the ground beside him.

  Thank the gods for morons.

  A light rain began to drizzle, and the guard who was awake shifted slightly, trying to draw his cloak tighter around him.

  Now!

  With his long-knife in hand, Asgrim came around the corner. The guard’s head swung toward him, but he only stared stupidly as Asgrim rushed him. Asgrim fell upon him, shoving his hand over the man’s mouth in an iron grip while yanking his head away to the side.

  “Mmmrrr,” the Frank mumbled, widening his eyes in alarm and slapping at Asgrim’s arm with empty hands.

  The point of Asgrim’s knife slid into the back of the man’s neck, piercing his brain. Asgrim twisted the blade, then yanked it out. Though he was already dead, the man’s legs jerked as Asgrim let the corpse fall to the ground. He spun toward the other guard, half expecting a spear in his back, but Harald was already at the other man. After a flutter of movement, the sound of a knife cutting flesh, a wet gasp of air escaped from a cut throat. Harald stepped away, leaving a weakly moving lump against the barn wall. A moment later, the shape fell over onto its side.

  The night was too dark for Asgrim to make out Harald’s face, but he saw his shining eyes. Then Harald slipped off into the darkness, heading away from the barn.

  Asgrim removed the wooden bar holding the barn doors closed and slipped inside. The sudden stench of blood, sweat, and human feces almost made him gag. Complete darkness met him inside, and Asgrim had to carefully edge his way forward toward the sound of the sleeping men.

  Almost right away, his foot came up against a man’s body, stopping him. The sleeping man grunted, mumbled, and rolled away. Asgrim dropped and felt for his face. Placing his hand over the man’s mouth, he shook his shoulder.

  “Wake up, sluggard,” whispered Asgrim. “But keep quiet.”

  The man thrashed about, and Asgrim tightened his grip over his mouth and leaned in closer. “It’s me, Asgrim Wood-Nose, your fucking captain, you traitorous prick… whichever one of you whoresons this is. Quit making a fuss if you ever want to get out of here alive.”

  At the sound of Asgrim’s voice, the man quit thrashing about. Asgrim could just make out the shine of his eyes. He took his hand off the man’s mouth.

  “Captain, thank Odin,” the other man whispered.

  “Fuck Odin. I’m the one freeing you.” Asgrim pushed him onto his side and felt for his bonds. He cut the straps holding his arms bound, then reached down and cut the ones on his ankles. The man sighed in relief, rubbing his wrists.

  How long have they been trussed up like that?

  “Who is this?” he asked.

  “Snorri.”

  Asgrim clapped a hand over the man’s shoulder. “Can you fight, Snorri?
”

  “Gods damned right I can fight, Captain. We’ll all fucking fight.”

  Asgrim snorted, drew another knife, and handed it hilt first to Snorri. “Hurry. Cut the others loose. But keep ’em quiet. If the Franks wake, we’re all dead.”

  “Aye, Captain.” The man paused, and Asgrim heard him inhale deeply. “Captain… on the beach—”

  Asgrim grabbed him and pushed him toward the others. “Go. I’ll kick your traitorous ass later.”

  Some of the others began to wake and quietly ask questions in the dark. Asgrim hissed at them to shut up and then went from man to man, cutting each one’s bonds. As the men woke, each one helped free the others. Asgrim felt their excitement rise. Hope was a powerful emotion.

  As was revenge.

  Asgrim needed only minutes to free forty of his men. The others were dead, killed in the battle, or tortured and executed by the Franks. The men crowded near the doors, and Asgrim had them drag the corpses of the two dead sentries inside and strip them for armor and weapons. Then he sent two men out wearing the Franks’ helmets and holding spears. The men took up positions on either side of the door; from a distance, they would pass for the sentries. The remainder of the men waited silently. Their only chance was to keep the Franks sleeping, unaware of what was happening in the dark.

  One of the two men pretending to be sentries opened the door a crack and whispered, “Someone’s coming.”

  Asgrim peered past the doors and saw a figure emerge from the mist, silently creeping toward them with a bundle in its arms. Asgrim smiled and pulled the doors open.

  “Let him by,” he whispered.

  Harald Skull-Crusher stumbled into the barn, his arms filled with spears. The others rushed him, taking the weapons from him and passing them out among themselves.

  “Well?” whispered Asgrim.

  Harald sighed. “There’s spears and shields in front of each of the tents, as well as bows and quivers of arrows. They’re probably sleeping with their swords.”

  “I don’t care about swords. We need axes for the shield wall.”