“Yet he died,” said Asgrim.
Abid nodded sagely. “Yet still he died, for no mortal man can long carry such an evil within. Perhaps he didn’t realize this. Perhaps the Marid lied to him. I do not know. But we have been trying to recapture the demon for many, many years now, to take it back to the Caliphate, where it can be safely held for all time.”
“This is why you’ve raided this island before, isn’t it?” Asgrim asked.
“This is true, Captain. Twice now, we’ve tried to take the demon back. But each time, I am ashamed to admit, we failed. After our last attempt, the Franks sent soldiers to move the monastery. We would have sent an army, but it would have meant war with the Frankish King Charlemagne, a war we did not wish to fight.”
Asgrim snorted. “Not yet, you mean.”
“Islam is peace, Captain. The Caliph wishes the demon returned to its prison, but does not desire another war. So—”
“So you tricked me into raiding the island for you, hoping I’d defeat the garrison.”
Abid opened his hands to Asgrim and nodded. “We knew you were bold where we were not, that you could accomplish what we did not have the strength to do.”
Asgrim sighed and leaned forward, jabbing his empty beer mug at the man. “Saracen, don’t blow air up my ass.”
Abid’s face went grey, then he smiled again, bobbing his head quickly. “You are, of course, correct and astute, Captain. I flatter you needlessly. But the silver is real, and we are prepared to pay you handsomely for your services.”
“What do you want?” said Asgrim. “Speak plainly for once in your miserable lying life.”
The two men locked eyes, and Asgrim was certain there was anger hidden behind Abid’s. A long, uncomfortable silence passed before Abid inclined his head and spoke again. “We seek to recapture the Marid, to take it away from this land and return it to the Caliphate, where it can no longer pose a threat to the world. If you help us in this task, we shall give you all of our silver, a thousand coins, enough to become the wealthiest of all sword-Danes.”
Asgrim leaned back and considered the Saracen. Harald leaned in and whispered into his ear. “I don’t trust him. Make him show us the—”
Asgrim lifted a hand to silence Harald. “How, Abid? How will you capture this Marid? It’s already killed scores of men.” He turned and jabbed a finger at Sea Eel, still beached on the sand. “It is stronger than you can possibly imagine, immensely powerful—far more powerful than any single man, than dozens of men combined. No man can hope to stand against it.”
“We have our ways, Captain, powerful ways. My colleague Yusuf is far more than just a servant. He is a potent mystic, famous among our people. I have brought him all this way for just this reason.” Abid paused, his fingers brushing something on his chest beneath his robes. He leaned forward and lowered his voice, but spoke with conviction. “We can capture this spirit and take it from here, saving all of the people who live on this island. And believe me, if left alone, it will kill them all. It will kill you and your men, as well. And once there are no more souls to consume, it will move on to the mainland and continue its evil. Only we have the means to defeat it.”
Once again, Asgrim remembered Freya’s warning: If it reaches the mainland…
He stared out at the dark forest, knowing the spirit, this… Marid, was still out there, mocking him.
So many dead: the priests, the Frankish soldiers, those poor village girls, his own brother… even Alda, who had saved his life, who had touched him without flinching. What kind of a man was he?
“All right, Saracen. We’ll help you. And in return, you will give me half the silver now.”
Abid’s face paled. “But, Captain—”
“Half the silver now, or our business is done.” Asgrim put on his most threatening smile. “Well… almost done. There’s still the matter of your treachery.”
Abid suddenly sat erect, clearly understanding Asgrim’s threat. He dipped his head and raised his hands, palms toward Asgrim. “We have a deal, Captain. As God is our witness, we have a deal. You shall have half the silver now, the rest when the Marid is captured.”
When Asgrim stood up abruptly and reached across the fire, Abid’s guards leapt to their feet, their hands reaching for their swords, but Asgrim merely gripped the other man’s forearm and squeezed it.
“We have a deal,” Asgrim repeated. Then he leaned in closer and put his mouth near the Saracen’s ear. “But if you betray me, I promise I will cut you open and pull your intestines from your fat belly. You will be a long time dying.” Asgrim stepped back and opened his arms wide. With a huge smile on his scarred face, he said, “Well, now. I guess we’re all friends again.”
Seventeen
The shoreline,
August 14, 799,
Dawn
Early the next morning, they headed inland, hunting the spirit. The night before, Asgrim had asked for volunteers, fearing few, if any, of the men would willingly go with him. When the men, including Harald, confronted him en masse, each one demanding to go, Asgrim had stood speechless. He chose ten of the most experienced men and put Harald in charge of the others, ordering him to make sure Sea Eel was ready to sail on his return.
Often, the web the spinners weave is a twisted one. Only days before, Harald had tried to kill him; days later, Asgrim trusted him with his ship.
Steiner Ghost-Foot was one of the men Asgrim had chosen to accompany him, and the man silently led the party into the island’s interior. Asgrim followed closely behind with his other nine men, as well as the Saracens: Abid, the mystic Yusuf, and the four foreign warriors.
A cool breeze blew in from the sea, carrying with it the smell of the open water, and Asgrim longed to be done with this island and to sail away with the wind in his face once more.
Each of his men wore their captured Frankish armor and carried shields, swords, and fighting axes. Four of his men also carried longbows with arrows nocked and ready for release. They had brought supplies for two days, which was more than long enough to search the tiny island. Besides, Asgrim doubted the spirit would hide from them; it didn’t seem to fear men. Now, however, they traveled with a Saracen sorcerer, a man that could, supposedly, capture the spirit. But if the sorcerer was that powerful, why did Asgrim’s guts feel rock hard? Why did he sweat so early in the day when it was still cool?
Achmed, the Saracen warrior who led the others, carried a round shield on his back that was completely covered by a black cloth tied in place by cords. The man took great care with it, and Asgrim could tell without seeing it that it was heavier than other shields. Heavy shields were a disadvantage in a shield wall, where the fighting might last an hour or more. Asgrim would have considered the man foolish for carrying such a heavy piece of armor, but his instincts told him the Saracen warrior was anything but foolish. Tall and heavily built, with a warrior’s wide shoulders, Achmed’s dark-brown eyes seemed to watch everything, like a bird of prey. Several times, Asgrim had caught the man sizing him up. No. He was no fool. This man would be a hard opponent. In fact, the other three warriors also carried themselves with the same confidence that only comes from experience and skill. The four of them drifted through the woods, moving almost as silently as Steiner, despite wearing glittering scale mail and pieces of plate armor.
Asgrim dropped back to walk beside Abid. “Your men seem competent… for easterners.”
If the Saracen picked up on the insult, his face didn’t show it. Instead, his eyes lit up with pride. “They are the Talons of the Falcon, holy warriors trained from infancy to be the perfect warriors. The sword of the Caliph himself, his own personal bodyguards.”
“Yet now they guard you, a merchant?”
“No, Captain. I am merely God’s humble servant, one that speaks your western tongues and has moved among your kind long enough to learn your infidel ways. These men are here to protect Yusuf.” Abid glanced toward the skeletal Saracen mystic walking behind them. Yusuf stared at the ground as he wal
ked, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings. “These men make sure he accomplishes his task. Without his knowledge and skills, we would all be damned to a horrific death.”
“And Yusuf is here to capture this… Marid?”
“Indeed, Captain. And we must do all we can to ensure his safety—even if it means our lives.”
“Can we not simply destroy it? Slay the Frankish knight that carries it?”
Abid shook his head. “It would simply pass to another vessel, Captain. It is too powerful for any of us except Yusuf. But even he—with his occult training and protections—must proceed with great caution. This particular djinn is pure evil, a demon of unimaginable force.”
As Abid spoke, Asgrim noted that the other man’s fingers drifted once again to touch something around his neck and under his robes.
What’s he hiding under there?
“And what is your plan, then? How will you capture the spirit?”
“We shall find it, or it shall find us,” said Abid. “We are servants of God, and our presence will offend the Marid. Eventually, it will come against us.”
“This is your plan? Walk about this island until it attacks?”
“Yusuf is a most holy man, Captain. All his life has been spent in the service to God, delving into his mysteries. He has garnered great power, divine knowledge.”
“From what I understand, so did this Saint Philibert,” Asgrim said. “And look what his supreme knowledge brought him.”
A trace of anger flashed in Abid’s eyes, and this time, his voice carried a hint of the heat he was trying to hide. “Philibert was not a holy man. He was a pretender, a seeker of dark power. But he was not without his tricks. My own father sat at the Caliph’s court as a trusted advisor when Philibert the Black first came among us, pretending to offer secret knowledge. And he impressed all with his false magic, claiming God as its source. But he lied. He lied about everything. He even pretended to know the secrets of immortality. The old Caliph himself believed his deceit.” Abid snorted. “We should have cut Philibert’s black head from his shoulders. Instead, he was given great privileges.”
“And this is how he found the spirit?”
“It is so, Captain. Ages ago, our most holy men trapped the Marid within a special vessel, a silver vase capped by a blessed ruby that was once worn on the finger of a very holy man. Through murder and deceit, Philibert removed the ruby, letting the Marid possess him. Philibert then fled from the Caliphate in a ship he had waiting for him. Long had he prepared his treachery. By the time my people realized what had happened, the traitor was days gone. It took us years to find this island and even more years trying to recapture the Marid ourselves. As my honored father lay dying, I promised him I would return the Marid—even if it meant my own death.”
“It might,” said Asgrim. “I don’t think you understand how dangerous it is.”
Abid’s eyes shone with the light of his fervor. “Oh, we understand how powerful it is, Captain. Never doubt this. Before my people trapped it, the Marid laid waste to scores of towns and villages, slaughtering all.”
And how was it set loose upon the world in the first place? Asgrim wondered, but didn’t ask, suspecting there would be no true answer forthcoming.
“It skinned a number of the monks—and my men,” Asgrim said.
“It wears men.” Abid nodded sagely. “Either their living flesh or their dead skins. Sometimes, it simply skins them and then discards their remains. My father spoke of entire towns where every single inhabitant—man, woman, and child… even the animals—were skinned. I do not know why. Perhaps it simply wishes to do so. Perhaps such things amuse it. The ways of demons are hidden.”
They had traveled deep into the woods. Ahead, Steiner paused in mid-step, his hand raised in caution.
They waited in place, silent and unmoving. No birds chirped in the trees; no animals rustled in the foliage. All other living creatures seemed to have simply vanished. Once again, Asgrim felt the air grow cold and moist. Although they were inland, he smelled the sea. He was certain that if he closed his eyes, he would hear the waves, as he did when holding a horn to his ear. A tremor ran through his muscles, and his hand shook as he reached for Heart-Ripper and drew the weapon.
His eyes drifted to Abid’s, and he saw the fear in the other man’s face. The Marid was here, hidden among the trees, watching them.
It wanted them to know it was there, Asgrim realized. It could disguise its presence when it wished to do so, as it had on the beach when it spoke to Asgrim.
Asgrim snapped his fingers and hissed at the men to get their attention. Their eyes wide with fear, they looked his way, and Asgrim motioned to them to form a circle and face outward. The Saracen warrior Achmed instantly nodded his understanding and grabbed men by the shoulder, forcing them into position. Abid and Yusuf darted into the center. Yusuf removed a pouch he had been carrying and hurriedly rummaged through it. All of the men readied their weapons, all except Achmed, who did not even draw his large curved sword. Instead, the Saracen warrior simply removed the large shield from his back and stood with it at the ready, his hand on the black cloth that covered it.
The unnatural silence stretched on, and Asgrim fidgeted in place, squeezing the handle of his sword and staring into the trees around them. And then, as if it had simply materialized from nothing, he saw the Marid. It still wore the body of the Frankish knight Cuthbert and stood just next to a large twisted tree not twenty paces away. Pink leaves drifted through the air beside it, falling from the branches overhead.
Asgrim’s heart hammered beneath his chain mail so hard his chest hurt. Realizing he had been holding his breath, he exhaled forcibly and shook his shoulders, his vision locked on the spirit.
The knight looked worse than ever, more like a moving corpse than a living man. The pale skin stretched so tightly over its skull that it looked ready to pull loose. Even from where he stood, Asgrim smelled rotting flesh.
The Marid stepped closer and bowed deeply. “Greetings, wolves of the northern seas, and you, as well, monkeys of the Caliphate.” His voice throbbed with power, like a force that pushed at them.
Yusuf spoke for the first time, but Asgrim didn’t understand his eastern words. The tone, however, was clear, commanding—even if it did waver slightly.
The Marid smiled, exposing his white teeth, looking like a hungry predator. “How rude, charlatan of the Caliphate. Your new northern friends don’t speak your foul tongue.”
Yusuf responded again, with more emphasis this time. The Marid laughed and shook his head. Achmed’s grip tightened on the cloth covering his shield.
What has he hidden beneath that?
The Marid’s eyes darted toward Achmed, and he scowled. “Those tricks will not work. I will never serve your pathetic little kingdom again.”
“Co—com… come forward, demon,” stuttered Abid. “We have God’s protection. We do not fear you.”
“Yes you do, fool. And you are wise to do so. Your God isn’t here. But I have no time for fools like you. I am here for the northman, the wolf of the sea.”
The Marid’s gaze turned to Asgrim, who stepped back, weak in his knees.
Be a man, damn you!
He forced himself forward again and slammed Heart-Ripper against the metal boss of his shield. The resounding clang rang out throughout the trees. “Gods damn you to hell, draugr! Let us do battle, then.”
The Marid smiled. “Come and find me, wolf of the sea. You know where I’ll be.”
With that, the Marid, the spirit that wore men, turned and disappeared into the forest.
Eighteen
The woods,
August 14, 799,
Midday
The Marid made no effort to hide its tracks. They led directly to the burned shell of the monastery. But then, somehow, Asgrim had always known they would. It seemed fitting that this ended where it had begun.
A cold sweat blanketed his skin, and his mind wrestled with his fears. Despite the presence of
the Saracens and their mystic, the Marid had no fear of them; that was plain. Why not? If they had captured it once already long ago, shouldn’t the spirit fear them? Why would it taunt them and then lead them straight to its haunt?
This felt like a trap. But he wanted—needed—the rest of that silver.
Or did he? He already had five hundred pieces of it, each one stamped with the markings of the Saracen kingdom. That was already more coin than he had ever taken before, far more than he needed to pay his wergild and go home. He could just kill the Saracens and keep what they had paid him.
No. He wasn’t going to break his word. Besides, he needed vengeance. That damned spirit had forced him to kill his own brother, and then it had killed Alda, who, unlike Asgrim, had been a good person. There had to be a reckoning for that.
So be it.
Perhaps it was simply his fate to come back to the monastery.
Fate. Asgrim snorted, not caring when the others glanced his way. So far, the three old crones had led him on a merry chase, all in the name of this nebulous fate.
Plow fate!
He considered the Saracens. If the Marid was leading them to a trap, the mystic Yusuf did not seem overly concerned. Perhaps he was just too stupid to be frightened. Asgrim was damned sure he saw fear in Abid’s face, and he knew that one was crafty enough to recognize the danger. The four Saracen warriors, the Talons of the Falcon, he couldn’t get a feel for. They were still a puzzle. They moved through the forest like hunters closing in on a wounded animal, wary yet certain they would soon have it cornered.
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