This was no choice at all. He was taking his ship home.
They loaded the captured goods on the Franks’ horses. Some of the men wanted to burn the village to the ground behind them, and Asgrim was tempted to let them, but in the end, he chose not to. The Frankish soldiers, not the peasants, were the real enemy. Instead, Asgrim led his men away, each walking beside a horse loaded down with armor, weapons, and other supplies—including all the beer.
Leading his own animal, Harald Skull-Splitter walked beside Asgrim. At some point, and without making a conscious decision, Asgrim had begun using Harald as a first mate, passing his orders down to the men through him. He wondered at that. After all, Harald had tried to kill him and had even killed his dog, or had ordered Hopp killed. The gods knew Asgrim had killed men for far less.
Was he becoming soft?
Perhaps, but he also needed to focus on what had to be done. They had a ship to repair. And the spirit was still out there in the woods, perhaps watching them even now.
And what did it want? It could have killed Asgrim on several occasions: when he was wounded escaping the mutineers, when he was alone on the beach, and during the days he had spent in the woods with Alda. Why slaughter everyone else it encountered, including Alda, yet leave him alive? He pulled out his Thor’s hammer and absentmindedly let his fingers brush it. Who could say what supernatural creatures wanted with the living? It was best to just fix his ship and sail away—the sooner, the better.
He glanced at Harald. “When we reach Sea Eel, I want sentries and a wooden wall built all around her.”
Harald nodded, “Aye, Captain.”
Asgrim noted the lack of hesitation in Harald’s answer. It underscored Harald’s newfound willingness to follow orders. The last time Asgrim had given that particular order, Harald had mounted a mutiny and almost killed him. Now, he kept his mouth shut and did as he was told. What a difference losing a battle—and half the men—made.
“And I don’t want to see any of the men drunk, not until we’re gone from here.”
“Aye, Captain.”
He was getting soft. Could he trust Harald? Should he just kill him now?
He watched Harald’s face for several moments before turning away and forcing his attention onto the tasks ahead of them.
He had killed enough men for one day.
* * *
Putting up the log wall around Sea Eel took only a day; fear was a strong motivator. The men cut down trees, laying them lengthwise atop one another along the sand around the ship, then packing dirt, rocks, and sand against the sides. Soon, they had a chest-high barricade. It wasn’t pretty, but it would work. If the Franks came against them again, the Danes would have the advantage.
But a wall wasn’t going to stop the spirit; only leaving would keep them safe.
With the wall in place, the men began to search for suitable trees to cut down and shape to fix Sea Eel. What Asgrim really needed were oak trees, but he found none. Instead, this island held stunted and gnarled mimosa trees, which were a poor substitute for oak. They cut down the best they could find. Then, using broad axes, they split the trunks into long, thin planks that they attached to Sea Eel’s keel, replacing the ones the spirit had destroyed. They took several days to get the strakes right, particularly because of the poor wood, but on the fourth day, Asgrim stepped back and ran his fingers over the repaired hull. It was complete shit, but it would do until they found better wood elsewhere. They re-attached the mast the best they could, with jury-rigged pulleys and tremendous difficulty—and only after having to cut off a good five feet of its length in order to fit it back into the mast fish. The men pounded moss into the cracks between the strakes, and the crack of wood on wood resonated along the beach.
“Ass-damned wood,” said one of the men standing beside Asgrim with a wooden mallet in his hand.
Asgrim noted that he was one of the young lads, a boy of about sixteen named Erp.
No, he thought. That’s not fair. Erp had been in two battles so far, losing one and winning the other. He had watched his friends endure days of torture. He may have looked young, but he had become a man.
“Aye,” answered Asgrim, “but it’ll keep the sea water out until we can put ashore somewhere else, somewhere we can lay up for the winter and fix her right.”
“Hedeby?”
Asgrim gripped Erp’s elbow, squeezed it, and smiled. “No. We’re not going home yet. But I have friends in Trondheim, among the Norse. Good friends, old shield mates. They’ll welcome us. We can winter there.”
“Trondheim,” the young man repeated, sounding out the word, as if it was a strange foreign land, and not just a day’s sailing to the north of Denmark.
Asgrim slapped him on the back. “There’s women in Trondheim, too, you know. You can plow them all day long. Then drink yourself stupid at night.”
Erp grinned, his face turning red. Some of the other men yelled out insults, accusing Erp of being a virgin. The young man opened his mouth to reply, but then the smile on his face vanished, and his eyes narrowed as he stared out to sea.
Turning, Asgrim followed his gaze and saw the sails of another vessel—one heading for their beach.
It was a Saracen ship that Asgrim had seen before. The men from that ship had sent Asgrim to this damned island of death on the false promise of plunder. His brother was dead because of those men.
He snorted as a smile spread across his ruined face. His luck was changing.
Sixteen
The shoreline,
August 13, 799,
Sunset
Asgrim watched as the Saracen vessel dropped anchor and lowered a small launch into the waves. The ship was a trading vessel, the kind the Saracens called a dhow, and was manned by a crew of about twenty men. It was bigger than Sea Eel, perhaps twenty ells long, and boasted two large brightly colored square sails. One by one, a small group of Saracens climbed down into the small, bobbing launch. Restless, he reached over his shoulder and pulled Heart-Ripper several fingers’ length from the sealskin scabbard, and then shoved it back in.
The Saracens didn’t pose any real threat; there weren’t enough of them to challenge his men—especially the eight men on the tiny launch that began to make its way to the shore. Just the same, Asgrim noted four of the men onboard the little boat wore glittering chain mail armor and carried large curved swords in scabbards; two of the others—the ones pulling the oars—were clearly sailors, barefoot and bare chested, wearing large pantaloons. The last two Saracens were richly garbed in brilliantly colorful, voluminous robes. One was a tall thin man with a nose that would have embarrassed a hawk. The other was the same fat, smug Saracen trader who had sent Asgrim on this raid that had cost him his brother and most of his men. Asgrim clenched his hands into fists.
He waited on the sand in front of the barricade around Sea Eel. His men waited just behind him, anxious for a fight. Harald Skull-Splitter, wearing his new Frankish mail coat, with his round shield in hand, stood just beside Asgrim.
“This Saracen prick lied to us,” said Harald bitterly.
“Aye,” answered Asgrim, his gaze locked on the launch.
The hull of the boat scraped against the sand of the beach, and the two sailors leapt out, hauling the boat ashore. The skin of the bare-chested sailors was dark brown, like the trunk of a tree. The four guards, moving like a single unit, wordlessly formed a screen in front of the boat. Asgrim had never seen armor like these men wore, and despite his anger, he was impressed. On top of their magnificent scale-armor coats, each man wore round plates of solid steel that protected their chests and shoulders. The scale armor beneath had been burnished, and the sunlight glittered off each piece. On their left arms, they carried small round shields made entirely of steel, each of which was conical, rising to a point in its center and bearing intricate Saracen markings. These men casually wore an earl’s ransom.
“You give the word, Captain,” said Harald, “and we’ll hit ’em right now, take their worm-eaten
ship and everything in it.”
It was tempting, but Asgrim shook his head. “No. I want to hear what he has to say first. After that… well, we’ll see about after.”
From beneath their conical steel helms, the Saracen warriors eyed the Danes. Asgrim could see the concern in their dark eyes. And they were right to be worried. They were outnumbered six to one by the Danes, who blamed them for their presence on this damned island. But Asgrim also noted that they weren’t terrified. He was a good judge of men, and these ones would fight. These men had confidence to spare.
Just how good did they think they were?
One of the sailors extended a hand, helping the fat Saracen from the launch. The man’s heavy robes were trimmed with sparkling thread. He wore a bright-green turban held in place by a silver band. Such clothing was utterly unsuitable for life at sea. Had he fallen overboard, he would have sunk like a stone. If the Saracen had dressed to impress Asgrim, he needn’t have bothered. The wind carried a trace of perfume, and Asgrim shook his head.
The Saracen trader smoothed his robes and then approached, his dark eyes wary, with his guards on either side. The other man, who was likely the trader’s aide, followed just behind him. They halted in front of Asgrim and his men. Harald snorted and spat on the sand. Just for a moment, the eyes of one of the guards narrowed. The Saracen trader paused, his mouth open. Then he smiled broadly, extended his hand, palm to the ground, putting the other across his chest, and bowed deeply.
“Greetings once again, noble Captain Asgrim, and may Allah’s blessings be upon you,” he said in perfect Danish.
“Who?” Asgrim asked, although he understood perfectly that the man referred to his one god.
The Saracen’s eyes widened. “Great and merciful God,” he replied.
“Which one?” asked Harald. The Danes laughed.
They would like to kill these men, Asgrim knew. So would he.
The Saracen continued, ignoring Harald’s insult. “There is only one God, and Mohammad is his servant. And I, Abid al-Rahman Sayf al-Dawla, remain your humble servant, Captain Asgrim. May God’s Peace be upon you.
“Peace?” Asgrim smiled, then turned and indicated his men clustered around him. “Captain… Abid? You may have noticed I have far fewer men than the last time we met—by more than half.” Asgrim paused, breathed deeply, and then continued. “My own brother is dead, driven mad first by the spirit of this island. An island you sent us to with the promise of silver—a promise that has proven false.”
The Saracen’s eyes widened, and he glanced quickly at the other robed man beside him. “The spirit is loose?”
Asgrim snorted, locked eyes with the Saracen, and nodded. “Aye, the spirit is loose. This island is cursed. There was no silver at that damned black monastery, and you, Abid, you lied to me, tricked me into coming here. Tell me now why I shouldn’t cut your lying head from your fat shoulders.”
The man took an involuntary step back before stopping himself. His guards shifted their stance slightly, and their hands drifted closer to the hilts of their weapons.
“Captain Asgrim,” said the Saracen, “please, I wish to talk, to… explain important issues, grave matters.”
“Grave matters?” repeated Asgrim. “Truer words have never been spoken.”
Asgrim felt his temper rise and knew he was moments from a killing rage.
Sweat glistened on the man’s face, and he licked his lower lip before placing a hand over his heart. “Please, Captain, my most sincere apologies for your loss, but… but there is silver. There is treasure to be had, and you may have it all.”
Asgrim exhaled. “More treasure, Captain Abid?”
The Saracen pointed to his dhow behind him. “On my own vessel, in a chest. And I will give it all to you and gladly, a thousand silver coins, from the treasury of the Serkland Caliphate itself.”
A thousand silver coins? That amount was ten times the cost of his wergild… with enough left over to buy and equip five more longships. On the other hand, this fat Saracen whoreson had already lied to him once.
Asgrim’s glance darted to the dhow. If he killed these men, he would never get to the ship before it pulled anchor and sailed away, and although Sea Eel was almost sea-worthy, she wasn’t yet ready to chase down prey.
Wearing what he knew had to be a fake-looking smile, Asgrim extended a hand toward his camp on the other side of the barricade. “Well, then, Captain Abid, perhaps we do have matters to discuss.”
* * *
Asgrim sat on a stump of wood across the fire from Abid, who sat on a folding stool one of his sailors had set out for him. Apparently, the man didn’t want to get his ass dirty. The other Saracen, the thin one with the beaked nose, sat on another folding stool just beside Abid. Harald sat on the sand next to Asgrim, drinking beer and belching. Asgrim sipped from his own beer mug and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He had offered the Saracens beer, but Abid had politely refused and the beak-nosed one had looked as if Asgrim had offered him a plate of steaming offal, which was fine, because he really didn’t want to share his beer with them, anyhow.
The fire cracked and spit, casting errant sparks. Asgrim smiled, secretly hoping one might burn a hole through the Saracens’ expensive robes. Abid’s guards sat in a tight group about ten paces away, warily eyeing both Asgrim and the other Danes.
They were right to be uncomfortable, thought Asgrim. But he had given them the safety of his camp. Nothing would happen to them—for the time being.
Asgrim cocked his head to the side and considered the Saracen trader. The other man smiled obsequiously in return.
Asgrim used his beer mug to point toward Big Nose. “Who’s he, then?”
Abid’s eyes flicked to the other man. “My aide, Yusuf ibn Ayyub.”
“Yusuf,” repeated Asgrim, inclining his head and then pointing to Harald. “My new first mate, Harald Skull-Splitter.”
Yusuf met Asgrim’s eye, then he nodded sourly, looking as if he was pained to be in Asgrim’s presence. This one made no attempt to befriend him, nor did he wear the false charm of a merchant. He was also no sailor; that was clear. So what was he, then, and why was he here?
“Okay, then,” said Asgrim. “We’ve established the pleasantries. So tell me about the silver.”
Abid smiled, exposing bright-white teeth. Several small golden beads hung from the ends of his immaculately trimmed beard. “Captain Asgrim, I most humbly apologize once again for the death of your men. Please believe, we had no idea the spirit was loose. I thought you’d only have to face the black monks, poor pathetic opponents.”
“And the Frankish soldiers.”
Abid paused. “Of course, those unworthies, as well, but I did warn you of them. I even described their fort.”
“Aye,” said Asgrim. “You did. Of course, those soldiers were already dead when we arrived, slaughtered by the evil spirit loose on this cursed island.”
“Yes, the spirit.” Abid glanced at Yusuf. An unspoken message passed between the two Saracens. “I am most sorry, but we had no way of knowing the damned monks had released the spirit. The fools!”
“You mean the djinn, do you not?” asked Asgrim, carefully watching his reaction.
Abid paused, clearly startled. “You know what it is? How?”
So it wasn’t just a dream. The dead had spoken to him.
Yusuf leaned forward and spoke softly in the Saracen tongue. Abid answered quickly, curtly. Yusuf’s eyes flickered to Asgrim.
“Speak words we can all understand, eastern man,” Harald snapped.
Yusuf sat back again, glaring at Harald, but Abid quickly smiled, holding out his hand. “Yes, yes, of course. We do not mean to be rude. Sometimes, we forget ourselves. My friend is not as accustomed to your Danish tongue as I am.”
“Speak of this djinn,” said Asgrim. “This is an eastern spirit, yes?”
“It is so,” answered Abid. “But it is far more than just a spirit, far more…”
“We’ve seen
that,” spat Harald.
“This djinn drove the black monks crazy,” Asgrim said. “They tortured and murdered one another.” Asgrim leaned forward and stared into Abid’s eyes. “Understand this, Saracen, I’m a hard man, but even I wouldn’t do the things those monks did. No sane man would. By all the gods, what is this thing?”
The sky behind Abid’s head blazed with the sun’s dying rays. He hung his head, looking up at Asgrim with a mournful expression. “My people know of many different spirits. Ghuls, ifrits, angels, and djinn. And among the djinn, there are many variations, some far worse than others. This one is special.”
Yusuf leaned forward, reached out his hand, and grabbed Abid’s robes near his knee; his eyes locked on the other man’s face. Abid shook his head and firmly removed Yusuf’s hand from his garments before continuing. “It is called a Marid, Captain, a demon of the sea.”
“Marid,” repeated Asgrim. The word sounded foul on his lips.
“This Marid is most assuredly not one of God’s creatures, but a servant of Shaitan,” said Abid. “It ranks among the most powerful of all djinn, arrogant and haughty, utterly hateful of men. And this one, ahead of all others of its kind, revels in destruction, in murder, and sorrow. There is no act too despicable for it. Verily, all demons thrive on misery and fear—but this one…”
Asgrim nodded, poured the dregs of his beer out onto the fire, which sizzled and popped. “Aye, we’ve seen this. It… took my brother, Bjorn.”
“Yes, Captain. It possesses the minds of men, drives them to acts of horror. But we had believed it to still be trapped within—”
“Within the bones of Saint Philibert, the Christian priest who built the black monastery.”
Abid froze, his mouth open. “How…?” He cocked his head and then nodded slowly. “Yes, Captain Asgrim. You are exactly correct. This djinn, the Marid, possessed the body of the false Christian priest, who carried it away to this island before he died.”
“Why?” asked Asgrim. “How?”
“Because we trusted him, because we believed him to be a servant of God, a holy man. He fooled us by sharing certain… secrets he had gleaned from the otherworld. But he was, in truth, a most unholy man, well-versed in the dark arts. For many years, he lived among our scholars and holy men in the Caliphate. This is how he discovered the Marid’s existence, secretly gleaning that we had locked it away to… to keep the world safe. So he made his plans, and when he deemed the time right, he stole the demon, carrying it away within his own corrupt body.”
Black Monastery Page 18