The Temperate Warrior Read online

  Jørgen regarded him carefully, his eyes drifting the longer he hesitated to speak. “‘Tis not for us that we build the vessel. ’Tis for Gustaf’s journey to Valhalla—”

  Øyven felt his heart stop. He looked back toward Halldora’s hut then glared at Jørgen. “Has he…” He could not bring himself to ask.

  Jørgen clasped his shoulder. “Soon, Øyven. ’Twill be soon.”

  He shoved Jørgen’s hand away. “Nay! You are wrong!”

  The hammering and sawing of wood slowly ceased and every eye turned to stare. It was obvious to Øyven that everyone worried he’d react this way and purposefully kept the task of building Gustaf’s funeral ship from him.

  Snorri laid down his tools and came near. “Øyven, ’tis time to let go. Many fortnights have come and gone. With each day, his heart beats slower.”

  “Nay.”

  “Gustaf is giving up—”

  “Nay, you are giving up!” Øyven shouted. “You are all giving up! If Gustaf knew you were doing this, he would not stand for it. He would wake up and tell you all to go to Hel.”

  Jørgen tried again to reason with Øyven, but he circumvented his attempts. Overcome with anger and resentment, he tore from the shoreline and ran as fast as he could to where Gustaf slept. Unconcerned by the ruckus he made as he burst through the old woman’s door, he locked eyes on Halldora, who was standing over the bedside performing a sacred ritual with incense and lifted prayers to Odin. She chanted as she swayed:

  Rouse your chosen champion…Bid him to rise up and enter into your Valhalla.

  Bid the Valkyries to proffer wine, for a prince is about to come.

  Øyven knocked the bowl of incense from her grasp and gripped both her arms, ushering her away from Gustaf’s body. “Stop this! I demand you cease beckoning the gods to take him.” He pointed at his chieftain’s lifeless body. “He still breathes. His heart still beats. He is not yet gone from this world, and yet you summon Odin to carry him off. Why?”

  Halldora looked into his woeful eyes, her voice barely a whisper. “I hear nothing from Gustaf. His spirit is gone. Only a body remains.”

  “What do you mean you do not hear anything? Surely, he has not forgotten about what Ásmundr has done to him—that Æsa still remains in his clutches. She needs him!”

  Halldora shook her head. “There is naught. No rage. No Æsa.”

  “Remind him!” Øyven roared. “You said so yourself, he can hear us.”

  “I have tried to talk to him but—”

  “Ach! He does not need to hear your mindless dribble, woman. He needs to get angry! He needs to know his Æsa’s life is at stake should he do naught but die a straw death!”

  Spurred into desperation, Øyven rushed to Gustaf’s bedside and slapped him across the face. “Get up! Open your eyes and live!” He bent in haste and vigorously shook his chieftain. “Find your will to live, my lord!”

  When Gustaf didn’t so much as move, Øyven took out the embroidered cloth he’d kept on his person and shoved it into Gustaf’s lax palm. “Feel it,” he demanded, squeezing the warrior’s fingers around it. “Grasp it and prove you can hear me. Come on, Gustaf! I know you can hear me!”

  Gustaf’s fist contracted around the fabric and Halldora gasped. “Keep at it, Øyven. ’Tis working. He hears you!”

  Øyven glanced down at the fist holding tight to the material and a frantic chuckle resounded from his chest. “Aye, Gustaf. Get mad. Get very mad.”

  “Hit him again,” Halldora instructed.

  Reluctantly, Øyven threw his fist down hard upon Gustaf’s chest. “Fight! Live!”

  Halldora gasped again, her eyes wide with hope. “Ásmundr’s face flashed before Gustaf’s eyes. He relives the day. He sees Æsa crying.”

  Øyven resorted to drastic measures and pushed his open palm against the blazing scar on his left shoulder. Gustaf flinched, but did not budge to prevent the assault on his injured body. Øyven didn’t let up. He put all his weight on the wound and growled as he tortured his chieftain with pain and anguish. “Feel that? Feel what Ásmundr has done to you? What do you think he will do to Æsa? Are you going to let it happen? Are you going to let him—”

  Gustaf’s free hand thrust like a crushing vice under Øyven’s chin, squeezing him, choking him. His eyes, alight with fire and fury, bore into Øyven’s as if he were the enemy, as if he were Ásmundr himself.

  Struggling to breathe, Øyven grasped at the surprisingly strong hand around his throat, trying to break free. “Gusta—”

  Halldora cackled behind him, giving no aid to his predicament.

  “A—little—help,” Øyven choked out.

  Fortunately for him, Snorri burst through the door in time to see a disoriented Gustaf about to strangle Øyven to death. “My lord! Release him!” Snorri barreled through and wrestled his chieftain’s hand from Øyven’s neck until he was able to pry it free.

  Gasping for air, Øyven dropped to the floor, his throat burning, his head pounding from the blood that strived to circulate in his veins. The commotion continued between Snorri and Gustaf on the boxbed above him, while he labored to draw air into his starved lungs. Halldora resumed laughing in the background and Snorri shouted in exasperation, despite the fact that Gustaf still fought like a rabid demon hound.

  Hearing all the mayhem, Jørgen finally entered and helped secure Gustaf’s arms. With an able-bodied man on each side, they held him down and gained his attention.

  “Gustaf! My lord! ‘Tis I, Jørgen! Settle yourself and look at me. We wish not to harm you. Stop your thrashing!”

  Confused and half-dazed, Gustaf slowly recognized his own men and looked back and forth between the two, finding his bearings.

  Winded, but relieved, Øyven gathered himself off the floor and stood to face his chieftain. Gustaf sat pinned on the boxbed, his breathing just as arduous as the two giants who held him captive. His ferocity had been subdued for the moment, but Øyven knew the full potential of his wrath was yet to be unleashed.

  “Good to have you back, m’lord,” Øyven greeted, rubbing his tender throat.

  Gustaf strained to sit upright and examined the three heinous scars marring his body. As he remembered the men who’d ambushed him, he clenched the embroidered cloth that lay in his palm. “If my brother, Dægan, was still alive to herald this moment, I know he would have something poetically moving to say. But where I lack in speech, I make up for in determination. Let my actions speak for themselves, for I will have my vengeance. As the last living son of Rælik, I will defend my father’s honor and uphold his noble name. Rally the men for council—my Æsa needs me.”

  ****

  Æsa resorted to riding in silence on the back of one of the other men’s horses—anything to keep from having to ride with Ásmundr. Since she’d awaken from the punch he’d served her back in Lillehammer, she refused to be near him, threatening to walk alongside the horses if necessary. But given Ásmundr’s desire to beat the polar night that would soon drape his homeland of Tromsø in complete darkness, he allowed her this one request.

  They had journeyed for weeks through the harsh landscape, stopping only for necessity. Ásmundr proved to be a gluttonous man the closer they got to Norway’s arctic frontier. Not even the increased snowfall slowed his pursuit.

  If it hadn’t been for the fact that she carried Gustaf’s child, she would have leaped from the many cliff edges to the bitter cold waters below. She would have welcome death in any form rather than stay one more day as Ásmundr’s prisoner.

  As it were, she had much to lose if she gave in to a voluntary death. The child that grew inside her was a miraculous gift and she’d do all she could to see it born healthy and strong. She owed that much to Gustaf.

  Normally, she would have been moved to tears thinking of him and how he died to save her. Often she would weep in uncontrollable sobs. It had driven Ásmundr to anger, which landed her a sound beating, so she had to learn to grieve in silence.

  Now, her sorrow had t
urned to stark bitterness. Her tears had dried up and all that was left was a shimmer of hope, in the form of an unborn child, whereby her love for Gustaf kept her going. She promised herself she would prevail and that their son would live to carry on his father’s noble name.

  More importantly, she had to make certain Ásmundr never found out about her condition. She knew if he came into such knowledge, he’d use it against her as leverage.

  As they crested the final ridge of their voyage, the beautiful valley of Tromsø emerged before them, surrounded by a channel of cobalt blue water and a sharp range of snow-covered mountains to the north. The location was a virtual fortress, a breathtaking sight.

  Æsa could hardly believe that one so ugly and evil as Ásmundr could be born in a place so magnificent.

  He sat in reminiscence on his horse, admiring the splendor of his birthplace for reasons Æsa assumed differed from hers. He outstretched his arm and gestured over the entire area as if it all belonged to him. “There ‘tis. My homeland. And somewhere amid this great land, where few men have had the courage to venture, lay my father’s hoard of silver—soon to be mine.” He reined his horse around and rode up to Æsa. His overzealous hunger for riches rose from his gut and spread across his smug lips as he regarded her coldly. “Where do we proceed to from here, wench?”

  She didn’t know the exact place where Ragnar had buried the blood money, for she only overheard details describing it—particulars that made little sense to someone who was unfamiliar with his sordid past.

  “Answer me, Æsa!” Ásmundr growled, jerking hard on the bit in his horse’s mouth.

  Æsa flinched in fear, her trembling body deceiving her desire to feign undaunted courage.

  “M’lord, the woman shivers with cold. I can feel it against my back. We are all cold and exhausted. Might we settle in for the night and resume our quest at first light?”

  Ásmundr rolled his eyes and, with reluctance, mulled over the man’s suggestion. “I suppose we can wait until morn. Judging by the sun’s position on the horizon, we have but a few fortnights before the season of Mørketid is upon us.” He looked at Æsa, his steel gray eyes flaring with revulsion. “Pray we find the silver before the polar night. If I do not have it in my possession before then, you will pay dearly. So, if you are plotting to delay what riches are due me, realize ’twould come with a costly price, my dear.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The mead hall was again crowded with men. This time the atmosphere of the gathering reeked of tension and rising aggravation.

  Gustaf sat at the head of the long table, Jørgen and Snorri to his left and Øyven to his immediate right. Down the length of the table, the rest of his loyal men and their kinsmen filled the benches and joined in on the heated discussion.

  Gustaf listened as each man argued the best course of action for finding and saving his Æsa. Several disputed that they should solicit the help of the neighboring clans, which many rebuked as time consuming and unnecessary since there were now only four men keeping her captive. Others suggested exploiting Halldora and her magical powers in hopes she’d cast a crippling spell of blinding headaches followed by vertigo. Though facetious in nature, a raging case of dysentery had also been proposed.

  After listening to countless ideas, Gustaf decided it was time to intervene. He stood up to address the group, but his injuries reminded him that he should do so at a leisurely pace. Inside, he cursed his wounds for he hated to show any kind of weakness before his formidable men. Standing tall, he waited for the argumentative few to settle down and he prepared his words.

  “I have listened to all of your suggestions and have weighed each of them with diligence and respect. While I am grateful for the outpouring of collaboration and support from each of you, I wish to utilize what has always proved successful to me in the past; cunning and stealth. Given that the enemy we face is but a meager few, there is no need for the entire settlement to go traipsing into the frozen north. You have families that need you here. I need but a half dozen men.”

  Snorri stood immediately. “I am in.”

  “As am I,” Jørgen stated without hesitation. All of Gustaf’s loyal seven stood up from their benches and willingly accepted the call, Øyven included.

  “Øyven, sit down,” Gustaf commanded respectively.

  “I will not. I deserve to go just as any other.”

  “And what will your weapon of choice be, boy?” Snorri jibed. “A bird?”

  “I am certain Ketill will lend me his sword.”

  “Think again, Øyven,” Ketill disputed, standing beside Jørgen. “If my father goes, I go too.”

  “And I,” Ulfr elected enthusiastically.

  Snorri huffed, displaying his irritation. “See what you have done, Øyven. You—”

  “I have done naught but stand beside my chieftain, which is more than I can say for you.” He pointed at Snorri first, then to Jørgen. “And you—all of you! You gave up on Gustaf. Erecting a langskip for his death when the man’s heart still beat in his chest.”

  Caught unawares by this revelation, Gustaf directed his attention toward Jørgen and Snorri, his unspoken astonishment blazing in his eyes.

  “And who rode out each day, looking for Æsa?” Øyven added. “Did you? Or you?” he asked, indicating the six around him. “Nay, ‘twas I who searched tirelessly for her. If anyone deserves to go, ’tis I.”

  Gustaf placed his hand on Øyven’s shoulder and nodded. “’Tis true, you have earned a say in this, more so than anyone. But Snorri brings a good argument. What can you and your bird do for—”

  Øyven’s face lit up with an idea. “She can find Æsa.”

  Snorri laughed heartily, throwing back his head.

  “Nay, I speak the truth. My falcon can find Æsa for you, Gustaf. I know she can.”

  “We do not have time for childish games, Øyven,” Snorri reprimanded.

  Gustaf elbowed Snorri. “Enough. Let him speak. Go on, Øyven. I am listening.”

  Directing his line of sight to only Gustaf, Øyven began explaining how instinctively the falcon had sought out Æsa in the open meadow, even when she had nothing with which to bait it. “I know Sæhildr can do this. She will find Æsa and lead us to her. Please, trust me. What have you got to lose, m’lord? If the bird fails, you are no worse than you are now.”

  “You are not seriously considering this…are you?” Snorri asked his chieftain.

  “A ruthless bastard has my dearest Æsa in his hands. Make no mistake, he will kill her if she fails to show him where the silver is buried. She carries my son in her womb.” A rush of muttered reactions filtered across the table, but he continued his speech. “I have significant reasons for finding her before Ásmundr grows impatient, if he hasn’t already. My options are few. I can journey to Tromsø and scour the whole valley until I find her. Or release the bird once we arrive, slashing precious time. Unless you have a better idea, Øyven and his bird go with us.”

  ****

  Æsa wretched the last of her meal in a privy pot and sat back on her haunches in exhaustion. For several days, she’d been overcome with morning sickness, vomiting long into the night. To hide the cause of her nausea, she’d claimed to have caught a stomach sickness. The excuse seemed to work, but she knew Ásmundr would likely catch on to her ruse, or worse, suspect she was merely stalling his ever-coveted search for silver. It was only a matter of time before he grew impatient and forced her outside the deserted shack to guide him to the treasure.

  As she’d feared, Ásmundr entered the room and sat by the fire to inspect her state of health. The others, who’d resorted to staying clear of her for fear they, too, would succumb to illness, remained outside. She endured Ásmundr’s icy stare until she could bear it no more.

  “I thank you for giving me time to gather my strength,” she said, hoping to use kindness as a way to melt his frigid façade. “I fear I grow worse with each day.”

  “Is that so?” He removed his dagger from his belt an
d began admiring it. The blade was well honed and shiny as if he’d just sharpened it. “Snow begins to fall. And thus, the more it blankets the earth, the harder ’twill be to recognize landmarks. Are you certain this is what you want to do? Delay the inevitable?”

  “I know I do not want to die.” As she labored to speak, her stomach heaved. Unable to hold it back, she vomited anew, gagging as yellow bile spewed from her mouth.

  Ásmundr groaned and sheathed his knife, standing to pace the floor as she tried to settle herself on the hard floor. His strides, measured and deliberate, stomped off a harrowing rhythm in her head. She knew he was only doing so to intimidate her, to make her understand he was not below torture and that he’d employ whatever means necessary to gain her compliance.

  Afraid he’d start soon, she tried another congenial approach. “I trust you have kept yourself busy while I have been face-down in a pot. Have you enjoyed your visit in your homeland?”

  Ásmundr accepted her small talk, though it didn’t go without suspicion. “I have. ’Twas nice to visit my mother’s grave after all these years.”

  Fighting another bout of heaves, she pressed on. “How did she die?”

  Ásmundr’s feet came to a halt, his eyes glaring in her direction. “My father killed her.”

  An unsuspecting tinge of pity clutched at her heart. Though she abhorred Ásmundr, she knew his coldhearted nature undoubtedly stemmed from being raised by an even more coldhearted sire. She couldn’t help thinking he might have turned out differently had he been born into a loving household. “I am sorry.”

  “What do you care?” Ásmundr barked, resuming his threatening to and fro steps.

  “I know how cruel Ragnar was. I can only imagine the pain you went through as a child, knowing your own flesh and blood murdered your mother.”

  Ásmundr scoffed. “Would you like to know why he killed her?”

  Æsa knew the question was completely rhetorical and waited for him to offer up the gruesome details, terrified her vomiting would recommence thereafter.