Black Monastery

by Stacey, William

The sun was high overhead when they came out of the woods and onto the edge of the square salt fields that surrounded the black monastery of Noirmoutier. The air still carried the stench of the burned wooden buildings, but the stone walls of the monastery remained, scorched in places, but undamaged, still strong and menacing. Not long ago, he had looked upon this monastery as a prize to be plundered, but it had been a trap.

  The walls should be torn down, Asgrim thought. Nothing good would ever come from the haunted place.

  He tied his helmet tightly beneath his chin, ensuring he could see through its eye-guards. The Saracen warriors prepared themselves by kneeling and praying, their heads bobbing. The sorcerer Yusuf sat by himself a short distance away and began to chant softly, his eyes closed, his lips moving quickly. Asgrim’s men stood and stared at the Saracens, then followed Asgrim’s example and began to ready their arms and armor for battle. But they moved slowly and awkwardly, as if they were half-asleep. Then they stood in a small knot, drawn together by mutual fear, gazing at the burned walls of the monastery and whispering among themselves.

  Asgrim joined them, and they parted for him, making space at their center. In their grey faces, he recognized their mounting terror. These were brave men who had fought in the front rank of many shield walls, yet each one looked ready to soil himself. Asgrim understood that perfectly. A man could fight any other man and at least have a chance at defeating him. But what man could do battle with the otherworld? What man could fight a draugr, an undead spirit that could rip the mast off a ship and then ram it through the hull?

  Sigmund Sigmundson lifted his chin and tried to smile, but failed utterly. “Wha—what orders, Captain?”

  Their courage hung by the barest shred, ready to pull apart.

  Asgrim reached out and wrapped an arm around Sigmund’s neck. He pulled the other man’s head in until their helmets touched. “You are a good man, Sigmund Sigmundson, a better man by far than most others. Never forget that.”

  Sigmund nodded and this time, managed a feeble smile.

  Asgrim let go of the other man, pulling back to speak to the others. “That damned spirit waits for us in that fucking monastery. Each of you knows this to be true.”

  He paused, letting his eyes meet each of theirs. “I won’t lie to you. That thing terrifies me, and I’d like nothing more than to return to Sea Eel and sail away from this gods-cursed island. But I won’t. I can’t. And it isn’t the silver.”

  Asgrim smiled. “Well, not just the silver.”

  Some of the men actually smiled this time, even Steiner Ghost-Foot, who always looked as if he was sucking lemons.

  Asgrim let the smile vanish from his face as he turned and pointed to the black walls of the monastery. “But I’ll have retribution. No one—not even a draugr—gets away with slaughtering my men, my own brother, and skinning innocent women. We’re going to teach this eastern spirit that there’s a price to be paid for fucking with sword-Danes.”

  The men nodded. The terror was still in their faces, but it had been joined by resolve. Not much, perhaps, but he saw more than there had been a minute before.

  “These Saracens seem to feel confident in themselves,” said Steiner, glancing toward the kneeling warriors. “Perhaps their magic is strong enough to stand against this spirit.”

  “If it isn’t,” said Sigmund, “we’re not going to—”

  “If it isn’t,” said Asgrim, “we won’t see nightfall. But all men die. Not one of us will live forever in this world anyhow. Fine! We fight, perhaps we die, but we face our fate like men, like Danes.”

  The men pulled in closer to Asgrim, drawing strength from him. They nodded, meeting each other’s eyes.

  “Perhaps I’ll see you in Valhalla this night,” Asgrim said.

  “Aye, Captain,” they muttered, turning to one another and wishing him well, slapping each other on the back, promising to drink a beer together in the hall of heroes this night should they fall.

  Asgrim swelled with pride. The gods only knew men like this deserved their place among the other heroes in Odin’s mead hall. He pulled away from his men as Abid approached.

  “The Marid will be waiting for us within those walls,” Abid said, his voice trembling. “Soon, God willing, we shall have it again, and then we can leave these lands.”

  “And give me the rest of my silver,” Asgrim said.

  “Indeed, Captain.”

  “It’s leading us here. You do know that, right?”

  Abid’s eyes darted to the walls of the dark monastery, and his fingers once again brushed something beneath his robes. “Who can say what such a creature thinks, Captain? Most likely, it tries to frighten us away, but God watches over us, and he shall see us victorious. Mark my words, before the sun sets again, we shall have recaptured the Marid. God keep us safe.”

  “I hope you’re right, Saracen. I hope your one god does indeed watch over you, because I don’t think my gods are here. I think I’ve sailed too far south.”

  “There is only one God, and Mohammad is his prophet,” said Abid.

  Asgrim snorted, rolling his eyes. “Let’s go get this damned spirit and get away from this cursed island—before the Franks come back with more soldiers.”

  When all the men were ready, and Yusuf had completed his mystic preparations, they stepped off, Asgrim leading toward the black monastery. Steiner Ghost-Foot walking beside him, to his left, carrying a bow and nocked arrow. Asgrim was not surprised. Steiner was a brave man, but Asgrim was surprised to see the Saracen guard commander Achmed just to his right. Just for a moment, their eyes locked, and Asgrim recognized a kindred soul, another battle captain. Abid and Yusuf followed closely behind, surrounded by the other warriors.

  One of the Saracen warriors said something, and Achmed paused, then glanced back at Abid and spoke in a rush, concern clear in his tone.

  Asgrim scowled at Abid. “What is it?”

  “There are tracks on the ground, many warriors,” said Abid.

  “Aye,” said Asgrim, “Ours. We were here a week ago.”

  “No, Captain,” said Abid. “He says the tracks are recent.”

  Asgrim glanced at Steiner, who was now down on one knee, examining the soil. The scout looked up at Asgrim and nodded, his face betraying his embarrassment. “He’s right, Captain.”

  Asgrim felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. “How many, and how long ago?”

  Steiner examined the ground for several more moments, then moved to a different location about ten feet away and did the same again. Finally, he looked up. “A dozen men, maybe more. Probably two to three days ago.”

  “What men?” Asgrim asked.

  “Steel-shod boots.”

  The Franks. They had been here. But before or after Asgrim had routed them? Or could these be new Franks, more reinforcements from the mainland?

  Asgrim’s gaze searched the walls of the monastery, looking for indications of a trap, signs of men watching them from hiding. He saw nothing; not even a bird flew over the silent black walls.

  Finally, Abid spoke: “These Franks. Could they be waiting for us?”

  Asgrim chewed his lower lip, then exhaled. “It possessed the monks when they dug up the old bones from the crypt, then the Frankish knight who fought the monks—even my own brother. Could it do the same to others it came across?”

  “Most definitely, Captain… unless one possesses protection.”

  Asgrim scowled. “Protection?”

  “We can keep you and your men safe, Captain. We protected you once already when the Marid first appeared. We have… secret ways.”

  “I don’t like secrets, Saracen,” Asgrim spat, glaring at the merchant.

  The warrior Achmed stepped closer.

  “My apologies, Captain,” said Abid quickly. “I did not think to tell you. My companion, Yusuf, can keep us safe from the Marid’s evil, but not the others on this island…”

  Asgrim nodded and then faced the rest of the men. “Be ready. The Franks may still
be here, hiding. Be prepared for anything.”

  He stared for several long moments at the empty walls of the monastery before nodding to himself. “Let’s go, then.”

  No one challenged them as they approached the blackened walls. Up close, the stench of burned wood was overpowering. Asgrim’s skin crawled, and he expected men to burst out from hiding and attack, but none did. He was the first man through the monastery entrance, walking into the courtyard where they had originally found the bodies. Only scorched earth and soot-stained walls remained. But the air became cooler and damp with the promise of the sea—a sure sign the Marid was nearby. His sense of unease grew. The rest of the men followed closely, trying to watch all the doors and windows of the inner courtyard at once.

  “It’s here, isn’t it?” asked Steiner.

  “Yes,” said Asgrim.

  “The Marid is powerful and arrogant,” said Abid, “but it has underestimated the power of God before. It does so again, you shall see.”

  Asgrim felt a dull weight within his gut, as if he had swallowed a large stone. “I hope you’re right.”

  From behind them, the sorcerer Yusuf began chanting in his foreign tongue. The words made Asgrim feel uneasy, although he had no idea what the man was saying. Yusuf continued for some time, and Asgrim and the others waited, watching, tensed for battle. Finally, Yusuf spoke. Abid listened and then translated for Asgrim.

  “The Marid is indeed present, Captain. Yusuf believes it is inside, through that doorway, below us somewhere.” Abid pointed to the main entrance.

  “The monks’ crypt is down there,” said Asgrim.

  Abid nodded.

  “You better be right about your magic, Saracen.” Asgrim turned and glared at the sorcerer. “We’ve come this far. Let’s finish this.”

  With that, he stepped inside the black monastery. After only a moment’s hesitation, the other men, led by Steiner and Achmed, followed him.

  Within the cursed walls of the monastery, the air was even colder, and Asgrim could actually see his breath in front of his face. Everything that could burn had been consumed by the fire his men had set, leaving only the blackened walls intact. The level above them was exposed. The wooden floor had been consumed by the flames, falling in and creating piles of blackened rubble that the men were forced to step carefully around.

  The stairway leading down to the crypt, though, was clear. Asgrim snorted. If that didn’t scream trap, then nothing did. He stood at the top of the stairs, glaring down into the darkness below. The air thrummed with menace and the cold promise of death. He gripped Heart-Ripper’s handle harder, squeezing it until pain spiked through his hand and forearm. Trap or not, he wasn’t leaving this cursed place until he had his revenge for Bjorn… and for Alda.

  His men shuffled nervously behind him. They had to move now, before their courage frayed too thin. Men could only stand so much.

  “It waits,” said Abid, from just behind Asgrim’s shoulder.

  “I know,” answered Asgrim, feeling a rush of chill air circle about his legs. “Someone light a torch.”

  One of his men handed a flaming brand to Asgrim. He slung his shield over his back by its straps and then took the torch. Asgrim stood in place, blinking rapidly, staring at the darkness. The spirit was right below, expecting them. It doesn’t fear men. Why should it?

  If they went down there, they would all die. There was no question of this.

  Fate. Fate was inexorable.

  As he took the first step, the slap of his hard leather sole echoed down into the well of the stair. A damp wind wound about his legs. Steeling his resolve, he took another step, then another. Slowly, he descended. The torch guttered. Achmed and Steiner followed so closely behind that he felt their hot breaths upon his neck. Behind them, his men were quiet, save for their footfalls on stone and ragged breathing. At the bottom of the stairs, Asgrim stepped into the large crypt. The air was so cold that he shivered; ice covering the stone walls of the crypt glittered in the torchlight.

  The Marid stood waiting for them, in the exact spot where the statue of Philibert had been. The spirit even imitated the statue’s exact pose, his arms crossed, his head raised to the ceiling above, but with an evil smirk on its cadaverous face, it watched the men approach. The statue itself lay shattered on the floor. Asgrim stopped about five paces from the Marid. The men followed, packing the chamber behind him. Yusuf began chanting again, and Asgrim felt an army of insects crawling across his skin.

  “Greetings, warriors,” said the Marid, lowering its gaze to them, but still smiling cruelly. “I had feared you were no longer coming, that I would have to go and root you out from whatever hole you were hiding in.”

  “We… we do not fear you, draugr,” said Asgrim, hearing the lie in his voice.

  The spirit didn’t answer, but merely shook its head. Yusuf chanted louder. The air throbbed with power and menace.

  “I find the presence of these eastern fools distasteful,” said the Marid. “But just the same, I am glad that you brought them with you, Asgrim Wood-Nose.”

  Heart-Ripper wavered in Asgrim’s hand, and for a moment, he felt the desire to lower it and welcome this creature. Then Yusuf’s voice rose in intensity, and the feeling passed.

  The Marid frowned. “You think these fools with their charlatan tricks can protect you? Why? And what is it, exactly, that you think you need to be protected from?”

  “You’re evil,” answered Asgrim. “And you killed my brother.”

  “No, northern wolf, I did not kill your brother. You did.”

  “But… but it was your—”

  “Oh, don’t be so tedious, northman. I gave your brother the gift of serving me. You took his life.”

  Abid spoke in his foreign tongue, softly, in almost a whisper. Asgrim heard it only because the man stood just behind him with Yusuf. It must have been a command to Achmed, because the other man edged closer to the Marid, stepping just past Asgrim with his hand on the cover of his shield.

  The Marid’s eyes flicked to watch Achmed, and it grimaced. “Whatever deal they made with you, you should know that they will break it. They have no intention of letting you or your men live.”

  “Tricks, draugr. Tricks and lies,” Asgrim spat.

  “No, northman. But you suspect as much already, don’t you? They seek to force me to serve them again. And if they succeed, their first command will be to slay you and all your men.”

  “Lies, Captain,” hissed Abid. “It is a deceiver. It is frightened now because God’s power will soon protect the world from its evil.”

  The Marid laughed, and it was an unpleasant sound. It shook its head and glared at the Saracen before returning its attention to Asgrim. “You are no fool, northman. You understand this man lies. They will not protect anyone, merely use me for their own gain. Their Caliphate’s power will grow over the entire world. But I will not be used, not again.”

  “You will serve God, demon!” shrieked Abid. “You will submit.”

  “Never,” said the Marid. “Instead, I shall take you and your ship, northman. I will use your body to replace this vessel of flesh, which even now is failing and rotting. You and your northern wolves will serve me. And why not? You and I are more like brothers than you and your real brother ever were. We serve the same purpose, red death, carnage, chaos, and destruction. Oh, yes, we shall burn the world and destroy every village, town, and city along the coast. And our strength will grow. More ships, more men, and more death. And you, Asgrim Wood-Nose, will become famous. Your name will live forever.”

  “I… I don’t,” Asgrim’s glance went from the Marid to Abid.

  “You are one of mine,” said the Marid, “You are death from the sea, just as I am. You know this to be true.”

  “I’m not… I…”

  Was he like this thing?

  “I could have taken you and all your men that night in the fort. But I waited because I knew I’d have to deal with these Eastern fools sooner or later. And now you’ve br
ought them to me. And their magic shall not work a second time.”

  “Don’t listen to its lies,” said Abid.

  The Marid’s eyes narrowed as it turned to Abid. “Tell me, Eastern man, did you bring my old prison with you?”

  “Enough, demon,” said Abid.

  Abid yelled something in his Saracen tongue, and the crypt erupted in confusion. Achmed stepped in front of Asgrim, blocking his view as he yanked the cloth cover from his shield. Asgrim saw a flash of silvery metal. The Marid’s face went pale and then flushed with rage. Yusuf also stepped forward, chanting furiously, almost shouting, and held a small silver jar over his head with both hands. The Marid drew back, its eyes widening.

  But then someone screamed in pain from the rear of the chamber, and Asgrim saw forms battling near the foot of the stairs.

  “Behind us!” Asgrim yelled. “We’re under attack.”

  Frankish soldiers poured down the stairs, attacking those closest to the crypt’s entrance. The Franks were unarmed, attacking the Danes and Saracens with their bare hands, biting and clawing at them as if they were animals. Asgrim saw one of his men go down under the weight of three Franks who had swarmed over him.

  They hadn’t been in the ruins of the monastery, but Asgrim had no doubt that these where the same Franks whose tracks they had found earlier—the survivors of the battle at the village, now possessed by the spirit. They must have been hiding in the woods nearby, awaiting some occult message to attack once the Danes and Saracens had entered the crypt.

  He had been a fool to come straight down here first.

  A wild-eyed Frank charged Asgrim, reaching for him with claw-like hands. Asgrim rammed his burning torch in the man’s face, letting it fall to the floor as he stepped to the side and brought Heart-Ripper down on the back of the man’s neck and yanked the blade back, nearly severing his head. Everywhere, men fought against the crazed Franks, with more still swarming down the stairs. There was barely room to move in the crowded crypt, and Asgrim almost tripped over a body lying on the floor. Achmed maneuvered to stay in front of the Marid, still holding the spirit at bay with whatever magic his silver shield possessed. Yusuf struggled to maintain the jar over his head amid the men fighting around him and jostling him. Abid stood just behind Yusuf. Terror filled his wide eyes. Then a half-naked Frankish soldier grabbed Abid and pulled him down, biting at his throat. Abid screamed, and the Saracen’s feet pounded the ground. Asgrim moved to help, but someone suddenly grasped at the shield on his back, pulling him off balance. He slipped his arms free of the shield’s straps and spun in place, lashing out with his sword and cutting a Frankish arm off at the elbow. But then at least three more Franks rushed forward, colliding with him, and he went down under their combined weight. Panic gripped him as their fingers jabbed at him like knives, trying to get through his chain mail coat and tear into his flesh. He kicked and thrashed, cutting at them with Heart-Ripper and pounding at them with its hilt. He needed room to get up, to keep fighting, but he couldn’t get it. Only his armor saved him from their attack, but that couldn’t last. One of them bit at his thigh, and stabbing pain ran up his leg.