Black Monastery

by Stacey, William

  The young lovers lay together, Freya still atop Frodi with her face in his neck; Frodi stared stupidly at Asgrim. Still somehow alive, his lips quivered, opened slightly, and then closed again. Then his eyes rolled up, exposing just the whites, and his death rattle slipped from his throat. Blood gushed from their bodies, soaking the blanket and mingling together in a rapidly spreading pool. So much blood had come all at once, so fast. Asgrim had killed them both almost instantly.

  But then again, he was so very good at killing people.

  He dropped to his knees at their feet, into the spreading pool of blood that soaked through his hose. Heart-Ripper dropped from his nerveless fingers.

  “Damn you, damn you, damn you,” he cried out in a hoarse whisper as tears ran down his cheeks.

  He closed his eyes, and the world spun about him. A vast, growling wind gripped him, lifted him into the air, and spun him about like a top.

  And then he found himself somewhere else, sometime else, back on the same unnatural shoreline on which he had found himself before when the spirit of Frodi had spoken to him the first time, to tell him Freya awaited him. Once again, he was surrounded by fog and an uncanny silence.

  The afterlife. The spirit world.

  “Brother,” a familiar voice called out.

  Bjorn stood in the water, his skin grey and his eyes pits of darkness. His brother was dead, a shadow of the man he had been.

  “Bjorn,” whispered Asgrim. “Why are you here?”

  “I cannot go on,” said Bjorn. “There is no Valhalla for me.”

  “But you died in battle. How… how is that—”

  “The Marid’s taint passes through worlds and into the lands of the dead,” Freya’s voice announced from behind him.

  Spinning in place, Asgrim saw her standing near the edge of the water, her hands clasped in front of her. A spreading stain of blood soaked through the front of her gown. He closed his eyes, feeling the crushing weight of his crimes.

  “Freya,” he mumbled, “I’m sorry for what I did. I’m so sorry.”

  She cocked her head to the side, watching him with a puzzled gaze. “Perhaps,” she whispered. “But your sorrow changes nothing now.”

  And she was right. He moaned and nodded, knowing some crimes could never be forgiven. He motioned toward Bjorn with his head. “What madness is this, then? Why isn’t my brother in Valhalla? How can an eastern spirit interfere with a warrior’s journey to Valhalla? The Valkyries—”

  “Did not come for me, brother. I died when the Marid took my body, not when you cut it open. There is no Valhalla for me,” said Bjorn.

  “No,” whispered Asgrim.

  A surge of emotions rushed through him, making the world seem to spin and wobble, as his mind grappled with this information. He hadn’t killed his brother, then; he wasn’t a kinslayer. But his relief was almost immediately overwhelmed by the realization that his brother would never see the afterlife he deserved.

  This couldn’t be.

  “We are all lost now, Captain,” said Harald Skull-Splitter, stepping out of the fog, moving to stand beside Bjorn.

  “Harald…” said Asgrim. “But…”

  More figures stepped out of the fog. The remainder of his crew joined Bjorn and Harald. All were dead. They stood in a semicircle facing him, silently watching him through dead eyes.

  “No,” whispered Asgrim. The weight of responsibility crushed down on him. “All of you?”

  Freya sighed, her expression so sad. “The Marid knew it had to deal with the Saracens that would be coming for it. It knew that if it didn’t, they might recapture it someday, force it to serve them again. Now, that fear is gone, so it can concentrate on what it always wanted, you and your ship, to use the shells of your men. It is a demon of the sea and needed a way to raid along the coast. I told you it had to be stopped. Now, it will use your ship, killing everywhere it goes. And the spirits of those that it kills will never rest.”

  “We shall never rest,” said Bjorn.

  “Never,” said Harald.

  “Never,” echoed the voices of his crew.

  “No,” whispered Asgrim. “I’ve led you all to this horror?”

  Dizziness overcame him, and the world seemed to spin about him. “What… what do I do?”

  Freya stepped closer. “You must not let it leave. Only you remain to stop it now. Only you.”

  “How? How does one man fight such a thing? It beat us all—even the Saracens. And they used magic,” said Asgrim.

  “The Saracens sought to capture it, to use its power,” said Freya. “But the Marid cannot be held by men, not forever. It must be banished, sent back to its own realm.”

  “But how?” asked Asgrim.

  “I wish I could fight with you again, brother,” said Bjorn, stepping closer now, reaching out with his large arms and placing them on Asgrim’s shoulders, “just one last time. But I’m dead. You must find a way. It’s only you now.”

  Asgrim shuddered at his cold touch.

  “Only you,” said Bjorn. He turned away and walked into the ocean, disappearing into the fog.

  “Only you, Captain,” said Harald Skull-Splitter as he, too, turned and vanished.

  “Only you,” said his dead crew, disappearing.

  “I can’t fight such a thing,” said Asgrim. “It’s not possible.”

  Freya watched him. She wore no expression on her face. “You’ve led such a wicked life, Asgrim Wood-Nose, hurt so many. Yet you’re not truly evil, are you? Merely weak, so very weak.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Asgrim. “I’m so sorry for what I did to you. If I could take it back…”

  Freya considered him for a long moment, and then she shook her head, turned, and walked away into the mist, leaving him alone.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Asgrim said. He dropped to his knees in the water. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Then, as if from far away, he heard Freya’s voice one last time, almost a whisper. “It is a sea demon. It gains its strength from the ocean.”

  As his world turned dark, he heard a woman call his name.

  * * *

  Alda cradled Asgrim’s head in her lap and begged him to stay alive and to stay with her. She knew she was acting overly emotional. He wasn’t wounded, merely exhausted, but she couldn’t help how she felt. She had been hiding alone in the woods for more than a week, terrified that the devil that had possessed the knight would find her and skin her, as it had the poor village woman who had come seeking her healing skills and had been caught in her place. Always sensitive to the otherworld, Alda had felt something evil coming for her that day. Horrified, she had fled into the woods, desperate to get away and to save herself. Much later, when her panic subsided, she crept back to her home and found the butchered remains of the woman hanging from a tree. Horror, grief, and shame overcame her, and she fled again, nearly mindless, into the woods.

  Many days later, she saw the northmen again, moving toward the cursed monastery—and Asgrim was leading them. He was back with his own kind. To her surprise, feelings of intense happiness flooded through her when she saw him, tall and proud, as he led his men; and for the first time in days, she smiled. After they passed, she followed them, needing to be near him—even if he didn’t want her. She couldn’t help it.

  When he had reappeared from the ruins of the monastery, pursued by those black-eyed soldiers, she had not hesitated to come to his aid.

  Asgrim mumbled and stirred in his sleep. Alda smiled down upon him and smoothed his hair away from his forehead. Leaning over, she kissed him once upon the lips and softly whispered his name.

  The world was indeed wondrous and strange when a Frankish woman fell in love with a Viking warrior.

  * * *

  Asgrim awakened to Alda’s touch, hearing her repeat his name. Bolting upright, he pulled her to him in a tight embrace, crushing her against his chest. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have left you. I thought you dead.”

  She said som
ething, pleading with him in rushed words. He didn’t understand, but he knew what she was asking just the same. She wanted to leave this place, to flee with him. He wanted that, as well. Together, they could find one of the stray Frank horses, wait for low tide, and then ride away from this island of horrors across the spit of land that reached to the mainland.

  Who could blame him? No man could fight the dead.

  He would have the love and companionship he’d always wanted, perhaps even a child, perhaps more than one. It was his chance finally, his time. What could stop him?

  Fate.

  Even now, the three spinners held their scissors over the thread that was his life, mocking him, offering him what he most desired, and then denying it to him.

  No. Not fate, but duty and responsibility. Damn the crones.

  He held her at arm’s length, staring into her eyes. “I’m sorry,” he told her. “I want that, I want a life with you, but it’s not for me. I don’t deserve it. I owe the dead.”

  Tears ran down her cheeks, and she buried her face in his neck, sobbing into his beard, somehow understanding what he was going to do.

  What he had to do.

  Twenty

  The Black Monastery,

  August 14, 799,

  Evening

  With Alda accompanying him, Asgrim returned to the black monastery one last time. This time, though, the Marid was no longer present; it had used the monastery to ambush the Danes and Saracens, then moved on—no doubt to Asgrim’s ship. The air within the monastery was still tainted with its evil; perhaps it always would be. In the crypt, he retrieved Heart-Ripper from among the dead, quickly grabbing it and turning away, stepping around the corpses.

  The Saracens’ magic had not protected them, but Asgrim still wore the eastern talisman he had taken from Abid, thinking it couldn’t hurt. It was a simple enough piece of jewelry: a palm-sized, round piece of silver covered with Saracen markings and what appeared to be stars. Perhaps it wasn’t magic at all, but simply a family heirloom or a keepsake of Abid’s. He let it hang beside his Thor’s hammer.

  On his way out, he paused at the bottom of the stairs and let his gaze rest on the bodies of his men, lying among the Saracens and Franks they had slain. Those had been good, brave men, and they deserved more than to be left here to rot in this evil place. But he could do nothing for them, and at least they had died fighting. He hadn’t seen Steiner’s spirit in his dream, or any of these men. Perhaps that meant they had been spared the horror the others had not and were already in Valhalla. He just didn’t know. Besides, he would probably join them soon enough. He climbed the stairs.

  Once out of the crypt, he searched what was left of the monastery’s worksheds. The main complex was now only rubble and stone; however, some of the buildings that had stood separate from the monastery—the kitchen, smithy, stables, and workshops—still remained intact. In a storage shed, he found what he was looking for, a bundle of reed torches and a single clay jar half-filled with oil for the monks’ lanterns.

  He would burn Sea Eel before allowing the Marid to take it.

  Asgrim tried to send Alda away from him, but failed utterly. She refused to leave his side. He became angry, raising his voice and pointing toward the Frankish village, but she shook her head and took the jar of oil and bundle of torches from his hands. Then she waited for him, staring at him in challenge. He watched her stubborn face for long moments and then nodded.

  She had her own fate, too. Who was he to refuse her?

  In darkness, they set out for Sea Eel. How had it come to this? How could he be the last Dane? Once, men had believed him lucky. No more.

  They covered the distance quickly, moving through the forest toward the beach. Soon, he heard the crashing of the waves. Just before coming out onto the shoreline, he stopped among the trees and dropped to one knee. He poured a splash of the oil over one of the torches, let it soak for a moment, and then used his tinder and flint to set it afire. It caught quickly, burning black smoke. He handed it back to Alda, along with the jar, and then removed the silver shield from his back, adjusted it onto his arm, and drew Heart-Ripper. The Saracen’s talisman hung from his neck on top of his chain mail coat, his hammer of Thor beneath it.

  “Are you ready, Alda?” he asked, meeting her eye.

  His intent was clear and, her lip quivering slightly, she nodded.

  This one is a queen among other women, Asgrim thought. She deserved better than to die with him.

  But no man can change his fate.

  He set off toward the beach. Alda followed so closely behind him that she was almost rubbing up against his back. Asgrim stepped onto the pebbled shoreline and faced his destiny.

  Sea Eel had been re-launched and sat with her prow pulled up onto the shoreline, ready to sail away. The Saracen’s dhow was gone. Had the remaining Saracens escaped? He hoped so. Somebody should escape.

  Frankish soldiers and Danish raiders moved about the shore near the longship, preparing her. Even from where he stood, Asgrim could tell that something was wrong with the men. They moved woodenly. They were draugr now, taken by the Marid. He saw no sign of the spirit as he began to walk toward his ship.

  When they were about twenty paces away, the first of the possessed men, a Frank, turned and pointed at them. Then the others, both Frank and Dane, ceased their labors and stared at them, as if uncertain what to do. The smoke from the burning torch Alda carried wafted past him. As if possessed of a single mind, the men stumbled toward them with hatred and murder in their dead eyes.

  Doubt rushed over Asgrim, and his breath caught in his throat. The shield would work, or they were dead.

  The air felt thick around him, and then the shield began to vibrate, pulsing with energy. As the first of the draugr reached him, the walking dead man staggered to a stop, lowered his arms, and stared stiffly at the silver shield. Then another, one of his former crew, froze in place just behind the first. Every single man who approached Asgrim halted, each one staring stupidly at the shield. The eastern magic was working. Asgrim stepped past the first man, turning to keep the shield facing him as he went. Alda turned with him, her chest against his back, her breath hot on his neck.

  When the shield was facing away from them, the draugr began to move again, to approach him, only to stop once more when Asgrim turned the shield back toward them. Spit dribbled down their chins, and they stared at him with dead, all-black eyes. He edged past the living corpse of Harald Skull-Splitter, hating himself.

  Had any captain ever failed his men as profoundly as he had?

  They reached the prow of Sea Eel and turned to keep the shield toward the crowd of draugr gathered in a half-circle in front of him.

  Where was the damned Marid?

  He shoved the point of Heart-Ripper into the sand so the blade stood upright, within easy reach. Then he reached behind himself, still keeping his gaze on the dead.

  “The oil, woman. Give me the oil.”

  She took several seconds to comprehend what he was asking for, but then she fumbled the jar into his hand. He took it and poured it against the wooden strakes of his longship. The stench of the oil washed over him.

  Years ago, the act of building this ship had brought him back from the dead and connected him with his father.

  He sighed and held out his hand for the burning torch.

  “It’s only a ship,” he said, not believing it for a moment.

  And then his eyes rested on the false keel, on his and his brother’s still-legible initials that they had carved into the wood so many years earlier, and he hesitated, dropping his hand and staring.

  * * *

  The Marid stepped from the sunken shell of the Saracen’s dhow that sat on the silt-covered floor of the ocean. Schools of fish swam past, averting their course well away from the djinn. After slowly slaughtering and skinning the crew of the dhow, it had no reason to sink their ship, as well, but it had done so anyway, perhaps out of spite.

  And it had much to be spiteful f
or. Long had it been forced to serve their Caliphate. But with that day’s events, those humiliating days were truly over. Never again would it serve man. It was truly free. The easterner’s precious silver jar that had served so long as its prison was destroyed and could never hold it again, and their finest mystic was dead. Now, with the northerners’ ship and the husks of their bodies to act as crew, it could savage the coast, kill, and burn, and—

  Something was wrong.

  It had filled the corpses of the Danes and Franks with minor ghuls from its own dimension, near-mindless thralls who were consumed only by the need to kill and obey. But now it sensed their confusion and uncertainty.

  The northman was back. Asgrim Wood-Nose was still alive.

  Impressive.

  The Marid examined its rotting hands. The corpse of Cuthbert was falling apart, as they all did in time. It masked its aura and walked along the ocean’s floor toward the shoreline.

  Time for a new body.

  * * *

  Asgrim held the burning torch in front of him with one hand, watching the draugrs step away from his ship. The Saracen’s silver shield had held them at bay, but suddenly they all simply stepped back, in one large group, away from him and Alda.

  He stepped away from Sea Eel’s oil-soaked hull, still keeping his shield directed at the dead men.

  “Why are they moving away?” he asked.

  Alda squeezed his waist and said something in Frankish, probably admonishing him to finish the job and set fire to his ship. And he knew he should, but…

  “It’s my last connection with him,” he said. “All I have left.”

  She pleaded with him again, grabbing his arm holding the torch and trying to drag it toward the ship.

  He couldn’t. He just couldn’t. He turned to face her, to try to explain.