Then, miraculously, one of the Franks he fought collapsed against him, unmoving, and another was suddenly wrenched free. Asgrim managed to shove Heart-Ripper against the throat of the last Frank and wrenched his blade back, sawing the Frank’s throat to the bone. Hot blood sprayed his face, but he was suddenly free of his attackers. He staggered to his feet just as Steiner killed the Frank he had pulled from Asgrim, cutting the man open from chest to navel and spilling his guts onto the stone floor.
Panting, Asgrim nodded his thanks, but then three more Franks threw themselves on Steiner from behind, dragging him to the ground. Asgrim tried to help, but even more Franks appeared, cutting him off, trying to drag him down, as well.
Gods damn it! How many of them are there? His men! His men were being slaughtered.
Asgrim kicked one of the Franks between the legs. Even possessed, the man dropped. Another rushed him, but Asgrim brought Heart-Ripper down on the side of the man’s neck, hacking through bone and muscle. He tried once more to reach Steiner, but the wild mass of fighting men had pushed them farther apart, and he couldn’t find him in the cramped confines.
He needed to do something, to take charge, but chaos ruled. Sigmund sat atop the chest of one of the Franks, repeatedly pounding the man’s already-crushed skull against the stone floor, seemingly oblivious to the fact the Frank was already dead. A moment later, another Frank fell upon Sigmund’s back, and Asgrim was pushed away from him by the press of the fighting.
One of the Saracen warriors, Asgrim couldn’t tell which one, swept by him, his large sword whistling through the air as he sent Franks reeling from its deadly path. Incredibly, as the man fought, a Frank clung to his neck, trying to pull him down. Another had wrapped his arms around the man’s leg, and still, the Saracen fought on.
This is impossible. They had to get out of the crypt. They had already lost this fight, didn’t the Saracens see that? If they stayed, they died.
Only dim light remained in the crypt from the torch lying on the stone floor, which had been sent skidding against one of the walls. Asgrim’s breath rasped in his throat, and he glanced about wildly. He backed away from the fighting, looking for a way out of the horror. He knew he was panicking, and he knew he was letting his men down, but he couldn’t help it. He had to get out of there. His legs struck something, and he fell backward onto the ground, dropping Heart-Ripper.
In the near darkness, he just made out the face of Abid lying beside him. At first, he thought the merchant dead, as his throat had been bitten open and blood drenched the front of his fancy robes, but then the man reached out with a trembling hand and grasped at Asgrim’s leg. He had seen enough death to know that Abid was on his way to whatever Saracen afterlife awaited him. But the dying merchant’s eyes shone with purpose and intensity, and his lips quivered as he tried to talk, to tell Asgrim something, but in the midst of the confined battle, Asgrim could make out none of his whispered words. Whatever Abid had to say, he was going to take his message to the grave with him. In his other hand, though, the Saracen merchant gripped a large round silver medallion that he weakly thrust at Asgrim. That must have been what he had worn beneath his cloak. Whatever magic the talisman possessed hadn’t saved him, but Asgrim took it from him anyhow. Abid smiled, closed his eyes, and collapsed dead. Asgrim quickly draped the medallion’s chain over his own neck and forgot about it as he looked about the chamber, trying to figure out what to do next.
Nearby, Yusuf continued his frantic chanting. Achmed still held the Marid at bay. But at that moment, a Frank threw himself from behind onto the Saracen warrior’s back and pulled him down. Achmed’s shield flashed silver as the man went down. It skidded across the stone floor, clattering to a stop against Asgrim’s leg. The Marid launched itself at Yusuf with an unearthly howl and ripped the man open from throat to groin with one sweep of its hand. Yusuf dropped the silver jar. It clanged against the stone ground as Yusuf fell to his knees, his entrails dangling, his face twitching with disbelief.
The Marid’s laughter rang out within the near-dark crypt as it stepped forward and crushed the silver jar with its boot.
Achmed rose, throwing the Frank away from him. Two more launched themselves at him, and Achmed kicked the first one square in the chest, sending the Frank flying back. At the same time, the Saracen captain reached above his head and drew his long curved sword—just in time to strike out at the second Frank and send the man reeling back, his chest cut open.
Gods, the man had been fast! Faster than Asgrim could have moved.
Just for a moment, Asgrim and Achmed’s eyes locked, and Asgrim felt courage and hope flow back into him. But then the Marid stalked forward and gripped the back of Achmed’s head, lifting him from the ground by his conical steel helmet. Achmed’s feet kicked wildly as the spirit lifted him higher. And Asgrim’s newfound hope vanished when the spirit crushed Achmed’s helmet and skull in its grip.
His eyes darting about, Asgrim saw that the battle was over. His men were all dead, and the Franks began to converge upon him from every direction.
He had failed, and there was only death in this crypt. Only death.
As the press of possessed men advanced, blood dripping from their chins and fingers, his courage and his hope slipped away completely. There was nothing left but to die—and he had no weapon. Frantic, Asgrim’s hands patted the ground, seeking Heart-Ripper. He couldn’t find his sword but, in desperation, grabbed the silver shield Achmed had dropped. He held it in front of him, certain he would be dead in moments, his throat ripped out by the possessed Franks.
But instead of attacking him, they stopped, staring at him stupidly, as if they were so drunk they couldn’t move.
Asgrim bolted, the shield held in front of him. He ran right past the closest of the Franks who still stood frozen. Other Franks reached for him as he stumbled through them, bloody fingers grasping. But as soon as their wild black eyes saw the shield, they paused. In moments, Asgrim was past them and running up the crypt stairs and then outside, into the dizzying bright sunlight.
Only a coward fled from battle, and he was most certainly running away.
He kept running, unable to stop, sprinting past the monastery entrance and into the fields. Behind him, he heard pounding footsteps. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw two Franks chasing him.
His heart hammered wildly as his terror drove him on, across the salt fields and into the woods, with the Franks close behind and getting closer. What a sad, pathetic end to the famous Asgrim Wood-Nose: to die empty-handed and fleeing in terror from an enemy. He prayed his father and brother couldn’t see him now. Or his mother.
Especially his mother.
He knew he was pathetic, but he couldn’t help himself, He couldn’t stop. And they would get him. This was clear. He was too exhausted from running in armor while carrying the heavy silver shield. He could tell they were almost on top of him. In moments, he would feel their fingers on his back, pulling him down, ripping into him, as they had done to all the others.
It wasn’t bravery that made him stop and face them, but merely desperation. He spun, trying to set the shield in front of him, but they were too close, and they collided with him, knocking him onto his back. Despite his efforts, he dropped the shield. Then they were on him, snarling like wild animals, trying to get at his throat with their teeth. He had no strength left. It was all he could do to hold them back, but he couldn’t do so for long. One of them pounded at his head, shrieking like an animal, and Asgrim’s helmet came loose. He tried to twist in place, but the Frank managed to strike him in the temple with his fists, once, twice, three times. His vision began to grow dim.
And then he heard a woman scream in rage. Something smashed against one of the Franks, and the man collapsed against him. Someone moved nearby, but the other Frank was still clawing at his throat. Asgrim’s fingers brushed against his helmet lying beside him, and somehow, he wrapped his fingers around its rim. He smashed the helmet repeatedly against the side of the Frank’s head, g
aining more and more traction with each blow. Suddenly, he was free of the Frank’s weight. His rescuer had dragged the wild man from him by the ankles. Seeing bright spots in his vision, Asgrim crawled to the Frank, raised his iron helmet above his head in both hands, and brought it down on the man’s head, shattering his skull.
He rolled over onto his back, breathing huge gasps of air. The woman leaned over him.
It was Alda; she was alive! How was that possible?
A moment later, she was cradling his head against her chest, tears running down her plain but beautiful face; her long red hair was loose.
“Right… all right… saved me,” he whispered through his pain.
And then he passed out.
Nineteen
The beach,
August 14, 799,
Sunset
All day long, Harald Skull-Splitter’s doubts nagged at him. When the sun began to set, he was certain something had gone horribly wrong. He paced and worried, occasionally stopping to stare out to sea. As night came on, he could now only just make out the shape of the Saracen ship anchored off shore. He shook his head again and cursed.
The men watched him from the camp. No doubt they had the same concerns he did. They wanted to leave, but they were worried for the captain. The hull was repaired—at least well enough to sail. Dragging the longship back into the water would take only an hour at most, but they would need two more to load provisions onboard. Soon, they could be far from the cursed island, out on the waves.
He sighed and ran his palms through his hair.
There was no way he was going to break his oath and betray the captain again, never again.
Harald was no war band leader; he understood this now. Asgrim Wood-Nose was a real leader. Harald knew no other man alive who would have saved the men after they had mutinied and tried to kill him. And instead of killing Harald for his betrayal, he had elevated him among the others, which was an honor he knew he didn’t deserve.
No. He wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was Sea Eel. If the captain wasn’t back by morning, though, Harald would take the rest of the men and go find him. If the gods want them all to die on this fucking island, so be it.
Feeling a sudden chill in the air, he rubbed his forearms. Then he saw his breath in front of his face and realized his doom had come. Forcing down the panic that set his heart hammering, he turned and faced the trees behind him. A man stood watching him, not more than ten paces away, wreathed in shadow. With fingers going numb from fear, Harald drew his new Frankish sword. He opened his mouth to yell out a warning to the others, but he suddenly couldn’t speak. His sword fell to the sand, forgotten. Then Harald dropped to his knees beside it and stared stupidly at the man, not understanding what was happening. The man approached Harald, and as he did, Harald saw he was more corpse than man. His muscles trembled, jerking as spasms ran through his body, and he began to gasp for air.
The man stopped in front of Harald, watching him with black eyes.
Draugr, thought Harald.
Behind the corpse-man, stepping out of the trees, a score of others appeared: Frankish soldiers with glazed eyes. Harald knew his shipmates must have seen them, but no one called out in challenge. No one came to help him.
Doomed, they were all doomed.
“You shall be the first of my northern wolves,” said the draugr. “Together, we shall haunt the waves, raiding and killing all along the coast.” The draugr paused, looking past Harald at the Saracen ship. “But first, we need to kill some men.”
But Harald Skull-Splitter was no longer there. The mindless drone, the ghul that now inhabited his body climbed to its feet. The only emotion in its head was the need to serve its master, to rend, kill, and cover itself in blood.
And somewhere, Harald Skull-Splitter’s soul screamed.
* * *
Asgrim found himself deep in a forest, one he knew well, despite the darkness of the night that surrounded him. He had grown up in this forest; he could never forget it. He was home, in Hedeby, near his father’s farm… no, his farm. His father was long dead. Soon, he would lead the expedition to Ireland, claiming more honor than his father had ever known. But at that moment, Asgrim didn’t care. He stalked through the woods, naked steel in hand, his anger rising. Fury and rage drove him on, propelling his footsteps; and far too much alcohol drowned his restraint.
Freya, damn you, damn you.
She had betrayed him, seeking comfort in the arms of another who was her true lover.
Frodi should have been more of a man. Had Frodi truly loved Freya, he could have challenged Asgrim. Then they could have laid a cloak out on the ground and danced the swords together, as Asgrim had done so many years before with Hrolf the Elder.
And Frodi would have died, as sure as the sun would rise and fall.
If Asgrim knew this, Frodi must have, as well. So instead, he took Asgrim’s wife as a secret lover, meeting deep within the woods, where they thought no one knew. Asgrim now slipped through those same woods, Heart-Ripper in hand.
Fools! How did they think this would end?
And to add to the indignity, Asgrim had found out about them that night, the very moment of his greatest glory. The beer and wine had flowed like water at the celebration in his mead hall. Fawning over him, everyone had congratulated him on being selected as leader of the expedition. He was the luckiest of men, blessed by the gods with a magnificent destiny of conquest and glory.
And a faithless whore of a wife.
Earlier, when he had stepped away from the celebration, stumbling outside for some fresh air and a piss, his head had been spinning. Never had he been so drunk. Someone had brought some Rakish ale, and Asgrim had drunk more than his share. He found himself swaying. How much had he had? As he was relieving his bladder, he fell forward against the wooden wall of his barn, and urine ran down his hose, soaking his skin. He hadn’t even been aware that Olaf was standing next to him until the other man started talking. Asgrim turned and stared at him stupidly, trying to understand what he was saying. He had never liked Olaf, who was lazy and too smart for his own good. In battle, Olaf always managed to be somewhere other than where the fighting was fiercest. He had signed on with Asgrim to sail to Ireland, but Asgrim didn’t like him or trust him. Still, he had his own ship.
Olaf smiled, and Asgrim concentrated on his lips, trying to make sense of what the other man was saying. As the words slowly sifted through Asgrim’s brain, a cold fear settled through the haze of alcohol and was replaced almost immediately by a growing rage. Olaf turned and pointed into the woods, telling Asgrim that no man would ever challenge his right to vengeance. Olaf didn’t dare say it, but the insinuation was there: how could Asgrim ever lead an army if he couldn’t control his own woman?
Asgrim drew Heart-Ripper and stumbled into the woods.
Whore. Slut. Betrayer.
He would show her. No woman, no man, no one betrayed Asgrim and made a fool of him. He reeled drunkenly, almost collapsing before catching himself against a tree trunk.
Bitch.
Child. Innocent. Lover.
Closing his eyes and moaning in torment, he shook his head from side to side. Then he ripped open his shirt and beat Heart-Ripper’s pommel against his chest once, twice, three times, drawing blood and causing himself to stagger from the pain. But the throbbing cut through the torment in his soul and gave him clarity.
Then he heard a woman cry out in passion. They were just ahead, through the trees. Olaf had told the truth.
Panting, Asgrim let his fingers trail through the blood on his chest, leaving tracks. Was he surprised? Had he always known, or at least suspected? Perhaps. Maybe he just hadn’t wanted to see it or to acknowledge it and thereby make it real, something that would need to be dealt with.
His rage throbbed and flared. Asgrim Wood-Nose, the ugly freak no woman could ever love—he wasn’t lucky. He was cursed. He pushed through the bushes, coming up on them from behind. They lay on a blanket, naked, with their backs t
o him. Sweaty and red, Freya sat atop Frodi, riding him. Frodi’s eyes were closed and his face was rapturous.
He had always liked the young man. More than just handsome, he was also polite and earnest. Why? Why was he doing this to Asgrim? Why were the two of them doing this to him? The world seemed to spin about him. Why had all women treated him like a monster?
And he knew the answer: because he was a monster.
At that moment, Freya, who had never made any noise other than a whimper when she had lain with Asgrim, cried out once again in ecstasy. Asgrim didn’t even remember making the decision to move; it just happened, as if he were standing separate from his own body and watching someone else—a stranger—step forward, pulling Heart-Ripper back.
With an agonized scream, Asgrim thrust the crucible steel forward through Freya’s naked spine, going all the way through her body and into the young man’s. They screamed in agony and thrashed about, but Asgrim leaned into the blade as he yanked it up to tear a gaping wound in their bodies. He pushed so hard that the blade went all the way through them and into the blanket and then the dirt beneath it, pinning them together. Asgrim released them and staggered back, crying out in rage and horror as he yanked Heart-Ripper from them. Panting, he stared stupidly at them. Had he really just done this thing, this monstrous thing? It seemed impossible.
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