The Temperate Warrior Page 18

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Halldora ripped open Gustaf’s tunic, assessing his multiple wounds as Helga and Gustaf’s loyal men stood helplessly around her. A blazing fire crackled in the old woman’s hearth and herbs of every kind hung within reach in the rafters above their heads. Vials of various liquids, pastes, and poultices lined a shelf on the back wall and strange animal skulls stared at them from the thatched ceiling.

  Standing in Halldora’s home was enough to make any man feel a little uneasy, but the single ghastly sight of Gustaf pierced with arrows and stabbed below his ribs was more unraveling than all the oddities contained here.

  Øyven cringed as Halldora carefully inserted her bony fingers inside Gustaf’s knife wound and felt around. He could only assume she did so to make sure no vessels had been severed or his vital organs damaged. When she retracted her fingers, she said nothing, but a look of relief eased across her brow. At least one thing fell in his chieftain’s favor.

  “I knew we should have ridden closer to the five dead in the forest instead of just counting them,” Snorri muttered bitterly. “We would have known we were still being followed.”

  Øyven watched as Jørgen closed his eyes with shame. “I did as I was told.”

  “You failed him!” Snorri barked, pointing an accusatory finger. “You failed to protect the man who has always protected you! I told you we should have looked at their faces! You would not listen to me! And now, our chieftain fights for his life because of your mistake!”

  “Enough!” Halldora bellowed. “You do Gustaf no good blaming each other. He hears you and yet he blames only himself. He grows weaker as he holds onto his regret. I need him to be strong and I need you to hold your tongue, Snorri.”

  Snorri grumbled, but kept his thoughts to himself.

  “What can we do, Halldora?” Jørgen asked, his voice straining with guilt.

  Halldora ignored Jørgen’s question and placed her hands on Gustaf’s bare chest. She closed her eyes and listened. Her wrinkled face puckered even more over the picture she saw through his thoughts. “He is filled with rage. His heart beats in wild succession as this Ásmundr fellow hits Æsa. She is begging at Ásmundr’s feet, but he does not care. He taunts Gustaf. He forces Æsa to make a choice. She stands proud and comes into Ásmundr’s arms.” Halldora gasps. “She kisses him.”

  “That bitch!” Snorri snarls. “She played us.”

  Øyven took complete offense to Snorri’s allegation. “Æsa would not do that.”

  “Then why did she betray Gustaf in such a way?”

  “I know not. Perhaps she felt she could distract Ásmundr long enough—”

  “You are blind and naïve, Øyven! I always knew she had an evil side, but you all refused to admit it because Gustaf was smitten with her.”

  “She loves him,” Øyven insisted. “She would not do this.”

  “She is a whore! Whores do not know what love is!”

  Halldora’s eyes flashed open. “One more outburst and I will throw you both out myself.”

  Snorri quickly clamped his mouth shut, but Øyven was not so obedient. “Æsa loved him, Halldora. You know this as well as I. Ask Gustaf why she kissed Ásmundr.”

  The old woman closed her eyes again and tried to hear Gustaf’s thoughts, while everyone else was held in suspense. Her fragile hands trembled upon his chest and her silver brow furrowed over a troubled face. “She kisses him to make him believe she loves him. She promises to help him find the hoard of silver he desires if he promises to let Gustaf live.” She listened intently as if his thoughts had become more difficult to hear, until suddenly she yanked her hands away. Gasping, she shook her hands as if they’d been burned and looked fearful into Øyven’s eyes. “Ásmundr did not uphold his end of the bargain and Gustaf knew his fate before ’twas sealed with that kiss. If Gustaf lives through this, there will be no stopping him in his vengeance. I have never felt this kind of fury from one man. In essence, Gustaf will be the epitome of the berserker, and if you value your lives, you will not stand in his way.”

  Øyven came to her on bended knee. “He must live, Halldora. Vengeance or not, he must live. Please.”

  Her tired gray eyes searched over the seven warriors in the room. “I will need four strong men to hold Gustaf down. I have to extract the arrows and cauterize the wounds before he has any chance.”

  Helga piped up. “My hands are smaller and steadier than yours, Grandmother. I will remove the arrows if you tell me how.”

  “Can you stomach it, child?”

  Helga did not hesitate in her reply.

  “And I will be one of the strong four,” Øyven volunteered readily.

  Halldora cocked her head with pity. “My dear lad, I know you mean well. ’Tis not the strength of your body I need, but the strength of your mind. Gustaf will howl in pain all through the night as we do this. Your heart cannot take it. His screams will haunt you, I know this.”

  “I will block it out,” he argued.

  “You want to help your chieftain?” Halldora asked. “Then take Ketill and Ulfr with you and search for Æsa. Find her and bring her back safely.”

  Øyven nodded once with determination and leapt to his feet. He would do this for Gustaf because he knew Gustaf would do it for him. As he marched past the hearth, he locked eyes with Snorri. The two men scowled at each other, holding each other’s glare. For once, Øyven would not be the first to look away. He stood his ground until Snorri gave in and turned his head.

  Satisfied that Snorri had yielded, he reached for the door and pulled it open, only to be stopped by Snorri’s hardened grasp on his forearm.

  “You are going to need this,” Snorri said, gifting him with his own leather belt that held his sheathed sword.

  Øyven was quite surprised. Snorri was not the kind of man to admit when he was wrong, or apologize when he was out of line. He was a warrior who reacted solely on instinct and barreled through with adrenaline and muscle might, leaving no room for second guesses or petty pardons. Knowing this was Snorri’s way of extending a peace offering, he accepted the weapon and hurried out the door.

  ****

  Halldora was right. Gustaf’s continual cries of pain had plagued his mind as he and Jørgen’s sons saddle up and rode long into the wee hours of the night searching for Æsa. He heard his agonizing screams echo in his head the entire time they’d made a sweeping pass of the surrounding area. Traveling as far as several kilometers north of Lake Mjøsa didn’t ease his torment either. As Halldora predicted, he was haunted by it and there was no way to make it stop.

  Though Øyven grew weary, he doubled back, returning to the scene of the massacre. The only thing he recovered was Gustaf’s bloody sword lying near the place where he’d fallen. By sun up, their extensive pursuit had come to a disappointing end and the three men barely had enough strength to keep their eyes open.

  After they cared for their spent horses, Øyven dragged his fatigued, sorrowful body to the door of Halldora’s hut, Gustaf’s sword in hand. Gazing at the intricately decorated weapon of rubies and silver filigree, he couldn’t bring himself to enter. He hadn’t come back empty-handed, so to speak, since he found the weapon that once belonged to Gustaf’s father, but he did fail to recover what he knew Gustaf treasured most.

  He imagined the pain Gustaf had endured under Halldora’s care would be nothing compared to waking and finding Æsa gone without a trace. With the weight of her disappearance and his chieftain’s poor condition, Øyven leaned against Halldora’s door and slid down until his bottom hit the ground. His eyes automatically closed as he rested his weary head on his knee and for one small moment, sleep overcame him.

  ****

  Øyven fell backward as Halldora’s door was pulled open. The sword he’d been reverently holding fell from his grasp and clanged against the wooden threshold. He shook the sleepiness from his head and blinked repeatedly, seeing Gustaf’s men exiting in a slow, single-file line. Each man looked as if he’d aged ten years, their
sorrow blanketing them like a linen-wrapped corpse.

  Øyven gathered Gustaf’s sword and jumped to his feet. “How does he fair?”

  Snorri kept walking. “He sleeps. Halldora gave him a potion to help him rest.”

  “Will he be all right?”

  “Only time will tell.”

  This was not the news Øyven wanted to hear, but it was better than he’d feared given the grief-stricken appearance of the six depleted warriors staggering out.

  Looking back toward Halldora’s door, where his chieftain lay on the other side, it beckoned him to enter. Teeth clenched, heart constricted, he took a deep breath and pushed inside.

  The scene took his breath away. Blood-soaked cloths lay in a heap on the matted floor. Basins of bloody water sat on every flat surface of the old woman’s home. Golden flames danced in a warm crackling fire in the hearth, but every soul in the room lay quiet and still, eyes closed.

  Halldora slept slumped in a rickety chair. Wisps of thinning, silver hair fell over her ashen face, which told of her great efforts this night. Helga lay in the boxbed to the right, her appearance just as disheveled as her grandmother’s. To the left, lay Gustaf on his back, his freshly sewn wounds standing out like embroidery stitches on a tapestry, yet more crude in nature. His body had been divested of his soiled clothing and they now lay at his feet on the boxbed. Draped across his waist was a thick animal hide, his bare feet sticking out at the end.

  Gustaf looked massive as he lay upon the narrow bed half-naked, but given the disturbing stillness of his body, he emanated the quintessential notion of a conquered warrior who’d fought his last battle and would never rise to lift his sword again.

  “I know ’tis difficult for you to look upon this man,” Halldora’s voice broke through the silence. “A man you have always respected and looked up to…and see him in such a vulnerable state.”

  Øyven said nothing, but knew she’d heard the doldrums of his mournful thoughts. He neared his chieftain and laid the prized weapon at his side. He hoped the sword would one day find its way back into Gustaf’s grasp, where it could be wielded to help right the wrong and bring swift justice to his foes. He couldn’t bear the thought of the blade being ceremoniously buried with him, never to be brandished again.

  “You need to prepare yourself, Øyven. He has lost a great deal of blood and a fever is setting in. He will grow delirious and ‘twill be more difficult to sustain him with food and water if he refuses. I will continue to care for him, but there is only so much I can do. There may come a time when his body gives up.”

  Øyven squeezed his eyes shut. “There are some things you do not know, Halldora.” He turned to face her and leveled his gaze onto hers, undeterred by the old woman’s threatening stare. “If anyone can pull through this, ‘tis Gustaf. He will live.” His emotions, though he tried hard to restrain them, assaulted his senses. He clenched his jaw to stop the trembling of his lower lip and he blinked away the sting of hot tears in his eyes. “He will.” And then he stormed out.

  ****

  Æsa sat in solitude in Lillehammer’s majestic foothills overlooking the Lågen River surrounded by mountains. The blissful scenic view of the dawn breaking over the horizon did little to ease her tormented mind, knowing she’d left Gustaf behind to guide Ásmundr to the buried silver he so greedily treasured. Sure, she had to falsely proclaim her love for the bastard and demonstrate it in a kiss he could not otherwise disprove, but she hoped Gustaf understood that she only did so to spare his life. She’d do anything to keep the father of their unborn son from being killed, even if it meant turning her back on him temporarily.

  She recalled how shameful she’d felt, kissing Ásmundr in such an intimate manner in front of Gustaf. The grotesque thickness and taste of his stale tongue and lips had turned her stomach. It sickened her even now. All she had to do was keep her end of the bargain and all would be better. How she’d escape Ásmundr and get back to Gustaf was another matter. Hopefully, Gustaf would see through her ruse and come to save her, bringing his unmerciful wrath with him.

  She never liked the concept of vengeance, even if it was for a just cause, but with Ásmundr, she’d enjoy watching him fall. In fact, she’d gone so far as to plot his death by her own hand. Maybe whilst he slept…

  “On your feet, Æsa,” Ásmundr commanded from behind her. “Grimr and the men approach and we need to move onward.”

  Æsa purposefully ignored him. It might bring her nothing but pain, but she didn’t care. She would not give him the satisfaction of thinking he could demand her to jump and she’d ask how high. He’d not broken her yet.

  She heard her name on his lips again and pretended not to hear.

  “I said…” Ásmundr growled, snagging a fistful of hair and lugging her upright. “On. Your. Feet!”

  Æsa refused to scream. Instead, she laughed at him.

  “What is so amusing, thrall?”

  “Gustaf will kill you,” she said with a sneer. “He will hunt you down and kill you with a vengeance you have yet to see possible from one man. I almost pity you.”

  It was Ásmundr’s turn to laugh. “Pity me not. ’Twould be a waste of your energy for as I see it, a corpse does not have the luxury of vengeance.” A cold flash of delight registered in his heartless eyes before he tightened his fist in her hair and dragged her toward his horse.

  “What are you saying?” Æsa snapped, grasping his hand.

  He shoved her against the animal’s flank and ripped her arm behind her back, crushing her until she submitted to the awkward bend of her elbow. His mouth accosted her ear. “A dead man can do naught to save you. The only benefit he leaves behind is the food his rotting corpse will bring to the worms of the ground. Unless of course, his men choose to give him a king’s funeral where he would then be food for the fishes.”

  Æsa froze. Her body trembled at the vulgar words Ásmundr delivered with cold, hard contempt. “Gustaf is dead? You killed him?”

  Ásmundr released her. “Not I, for I gave you my word I would not. Grimr, on the other hand, does not make a habit of keeping bargains with whores. What can I say? He is quite the ruthless bastard.”

  Æsa couldn’t contain her fury. She lashed out at Ásmundr, throwing fists, trying to gouge out his eyes, but he was prepared for her hatred and vehemence. He caught her wrists and held her claws at bay, laughing in spite of her agony.

  “I hate you!”

  “I know, love. But you will learn to tolerate me lest I resign to settling my own score with you sooner. Fortunately for you, we race against time and my desire to find the silver outweighs my desire to bend you over and slake my lust.”

  “You have made the gravest of mistakes, Ásmundr, for I will not lead you anywhere! I will take the location of your father’s silver to my grave, this I swear!”

  “You will not.”

  “I will!” Æsa bellowed for all she was worth, tears streaming from her eyes. “You will have to torture me, and even then, ’twill not escape my lips!”

  Ásmundr scowled and reared his fist back, walloping her with a punch that knocked her out cold and sent her crashing to the ground at his feet. Grimr and the men rode up just in time to see Ásmundr shaking his smarting hand.

  “You waited until now to tell her?” Grimr asked, putting two and two together.

  “I could not be certain of his demise until you returned. For all I knew, Gustaf could’ve killed you after I left.”

  “I am glad to know you maintain such confidence in me.”

  Ásmundr grinned at Grimr’s sarcasm and shook his head as he regarded the foolish woman at his feet. “Help me get the bitch on the horse. We have a long journey ahead of us.”

  “Every jaunt with you is long, m’lord,” Grimr said dismounting.

  Ásmundr watched as Grimr bent and hoisted Æsa over his shoulder with ease. “Be thankful I resolved the noise issue.” He shook his hand once more as the ache began to settle in.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

&nb
sp; One month later

  Øyven opened his heavy, sluggish eyes to the glaring morning sun and stretched his aching back from the horrible position he’d slept in on the stoop in front of Halldora’s hut. Like so many nights, he’d kept a vigil at the door, eager for the day when Gustaf would open his eyes and speak sensibly.

  For weeks, Gustaf had suffered through a debilitating fever that drenched his body in sweat and convulsed his muscles with chills. If he wasn’t fighting that, he was talking out of his head. Though Halldora had made every effort to keep nourishment in his body, he’d often grown combatant, struggling against anyone who aimed to touch him.

  If anything had proved to be a good sign, it was Gustaf’s readiness to engage in a brawl. Halldora had been able to get food and water in his system on a regular basis, but it never went without a struggle. Eventually, the fever had subsided, but so had the delirium. Without Gustaf battling to live, he’d fallen into a deep sleep. The fight in Gustaf had slowly dissipated and the last few days the warrior barely moved.

  Everyone in the settlement had prayed for their fallen hero, that soon he’d wake from his nightmare. But every dawn had brought Øyven disappointment and it would seem this daybreak was no different.

  As he stood to regain the life in his legs, he was struck by the distant sound of hammering. Curiosity overtook him and he padded slothfully in the direction of the lakeshore.

  He rubbed his eyes upon seeing the men of the village working in collective harmony. Some straddled logs, ripping bark and hand hewing the timbers. Others cut the wood into planks, while most were constructing what looked like the beginnings of a hull for a longship.

  Finding Jørgen first, Øyven made his way down to the meadow to inquire about the sudden fuss over a ship. “Where are we headed? I was not told we were going on a journey.”