The Temperate Warrior Page 8

  The precision and speed in which these men worked both impressed and frightened Æsa. They were undeniably practiced in the skill of raiding and evading, which caused her to wonder what terror they’d brought to others each time they ran ashore. By the time she’d tightened her cloak around her shoulders, they had every sack, bundle, and weapon secured on their person and ready to make their escape.

  “We will need horses,” Gustaf said aloud. He handed Øyven a pouch, which jingled in the transfer of hands. “Find Bryniólfr and purchase eight. Jørgen, take Æsa and see that she prepares for the journey. I will meet you at the edge of the forest.”

  “Where are you going, m’lord?” Jørgen asked.

  Gustaf gestured with a nod of his head, indicating a group of men who’d taken interest in them distantly beyond the deserted harbor. “To pick a fight.”

  “What?” Æsa snapped, her hand immediately grabbing Gustaf’s arm.

  He smiled and motioned for Jørgen, who came to her aid. “He only means to create a diversion. Slow the men who are following us.”

  “I will not be long,” Gustaf asserted. “Go with Jørgen. I will meet you in the lowlands. Go.”

  Reluctant to adhere to his command, she did as she was told, her eyes drawn to watching her temperate warrior go his separate way.

  Gustaf eyed the men gathering at the heart of the port. There were six of them, just enough to give the five at sea a fighting chance. Upon his approach, they stopped what they were doing and looked him up and down. They seemed to feign interest in him, one going so far as to spit on the ground, but he knew better. These kind of men got hard with the prospect of a skirmish and would no doubt jump at the chance to whet their swords on the flesh of a few worthless maggots.

  “You men look like the arse-end of an inbred swine after a long rut in a whore’s swill.” It made no sense what he’d said, but these men were too daft to know the difference. His words were only meant to stir the hive. In concordance with the leader, they stiffened their backs under the insult and unsheathed their swords. Gustaf gave a sardonic smile. “Should I assume I have your attention?”

  “Oh, you have it,” the ugliest one muttered. “Not certain how long I will let you hold it before I hack you to your knees.”

  “I wish not to fight you,” Gustaf stated, undeterred by the threat. “But I would wager they would.” He turned and pointed to the lonely longship drifting into the estuary.

  “And why would I care about the men on that ship when I have a man, more deserving of my sword, within reach?”

  “Would this be enough to make you care?” Gustaf asked, tossing an overflowing pouch of persuasion at his feet.

  The man glanced at the amount of silver that had burst from the sack and back at Gustaf. There was an adequate quantity there to last these scoundrels through an entire decade and he knew the big ugly one was sure to yield.

  “What have they done to you?” the man asked curiously, as he admired the broad blade of his weapon.

  It was not what they’d done to him, but the pain and anguish they’d caused his Æsa. No one brings his betrothed to tears and lives to brag about it. But Gustaf didn’t have the time or the patience to go into his story. “Just make certain they are unable to follow me. And you may use whatever means necessary.”

  The biggest man gave the most harrowing grin, while Gustaf resumed his conditions. “I expect you and your men would not want to do this out in the open. Too much silver at risk should someone else happen upon you. The forest would be good cover.”

  The supposed leader laughed. His enthusiasm for the task was a little unnerving, but Gustaf didn’t let it get under his skin. He swiped the pouch from the ground, handed it to the man and meandered through the labyrinth of his new venal warriors. With his hired band of mercenaries at his heels, he began his trek through the lowlands to where his men awaited him.

  As he entered the forest, he was pleased to see the horses he’d asked for and his trustworthy men making final adjustments to their tack. Æsa’s eyes widened as she saw him draw near, but Jørgen nonchalantly halted her from running to meet him. He whispered something to her and went back to tethering his bundles to the rear of the saddle.

  “Is she part of the deal?” the leader queried, his barbarous eyes gawking over Æsa’s curves.

  Gustaf froze and hurled his arm across the man’s chest, terminating the man’s forward progression. “Put it out of your mind, my friend. You will live longer that way.”

  The group surrounding him seemed shocked at Gustaf’s warning and he was equally surprised they let him pass. With his blood beginning to churn over the cesspool of ill-mannered men on this earth, he ignored the hankering he had to teach these foul-mouthed miscreants a lesson and approached his lovely lady. Without looking back at the filth behind him, he tipped her chin up and assessed her frame of mind.

  “Nothing to worry about,” he reassured. She said nothing in reply and he was fine with her reluctant tongue. They hadn’t the time to dawdle in conversation. He exchanged a few words with Jørgen and when all his men were ready, he hoisted Æsa upon the horse, mounting quickly behind her.

  He took hold of the reins as his horse danced and stomped with the added weight, eager to be free of the hard bit in its mouth. Once the rest of his men saddled up, he glared at the six lewd mercenaries at his feet. “Mark my words, gentlemen. Five men, and not a single one gets past. Are we clear?”

  “As you wish,” the leader stated, feigning a courteous bow.

  Grunting once, Gustaf kicked his steed’s flank and off they tore through the woods.

  ****

  Ásmundr and his cohorts made quick to follow the men he’d seen go into the tree line, making certain to keep their distance so as not to be spotted. In stealth, they entered the forest, their swords unsheathed, their bows nocked.

  Ásmundr stopped in his tracks, indicating with an outstretched hand that his men do the same. He searched through the quiet maze of trees, listening for the smallest sound, the slightest movement.

  “I know you are in here,” Ásmundr called into the harrowing silence. “Show your face like a man, you coward.”

  “Who you calling coward?” a voice erupted before its owner stepped out into the open.

  Ásmundr noticed he was a big man, as ugly as he was daunting. His face, the fraction not covered with dark, scraggly hair, was dirt-ridden. His clothes and hands fit the same description. His shiny broad sword was the only thing unsoiled, which foretold of his fondness for the blade. Great care had been taken to forge the iron and even more effort to keep it well whetted.

  Ásmundr sighed, his patience for the lone knave dwindling. “My apologies. I thought you were someone else.” He took his first few steps to resume their mission, but five more men appeared from behind the trees, blocking their path. “What is this?”

  The ugly man smiled, double fisting his polished weapon in front of him and casually admiring it. “This would be the end of the road for you.”

  Ásmundr assessed the situation with caution, outnumbered only by one. “I believe there is some mistake. I am traveling with a group of eight men and a beautiful redhead with large tits. I am certain you saw them come through here.”

  The man split his lips in a grin, his teeth—what little he had—were rotten and broken. “Oh, I saw the woman.” He licked the grime from his mouth as if it resembled a woman’s sweet nectar.

  Ásmundr’s stomach turned. “Then you understand I speak the truth. Now, let us pass.”

  The ogre shook his head. “See this?” he asked, patting the sack of coins dangling from his belt. “This right here says you lie.”

  Ásmundr realized the extent of the game and laughed. Quietly at first, until the amusement in him could not be withheld. His chortle echoed throughout the forest floor. “You are a wise man,” he complimented. “’Tis true I am not with those men, but I am after the tasty bitch.”

  “Therein lies your problem. I am not to let you get t
o her. I am to see that five men lay dead in this forest and I aim to please the man who so generously paid me for the task.”

  “Five men, you say?”

  The man nodded.

  “Then perhaps I can interest you in a better proposition,” Ásmundr suggested. “How about I let you keep the coinage and I only kill your friends, allowing you the adherence of your word. Five shall lay dead on this ground and, thus, you will be five times richer.”

  Ásmundr watched as the man’s comrades grew nervous with the offer, the one to his left finally finding his tongue. “This man is a fool, a desperate fool! Forget not the warrior, the comely blond one with nerve and reckless courage. He would hunt you down and carve your heart out of your chest for your betrayal. I saw the look in his eyes. He is not a man to be played.”

  “Shut your hole!” the grubby pig ordered.

  Another one of his men piped up. “Surely, you are not considering this preposterous bargain, Vigfúss. Give the word and we shall make this one pay for his insult.”

  Ásmundr knew he’d struck a chord, so he plucked a little harder, calling him out by name. “Aye, Vigfúss, what say you? Give the word and mayhap you will live. Walk away and be certain.”

  Vigfúss mulled it over hard. So hard that eventually his conscience vanished. His greed won the battle in his head and he sheathed his sword. Staring at Ásmundr, he took his first steps toward treachery and continued until he had crossed the line beyond Ásmundr’s men.

  Disillusioned and enraged, Vigfúss’ men lashed out, the cry of war erupting from their lungs. Swords drawn, they rushed in for the kill. Ásmundr drew his sword and pivoted, slashing across the first opponents back.

  Irons clashing, wills colliding…the men battled in a ferocious struggle for victory. Ásmundr’s men, fighting without the burden of disloyalty on their hearts, imposed the most threat as each swing of their blades proved an unparalleled level of accuracy and skill. One by one, the five fell, the worthwhile sound of Vigfúss’ name on their dying lips.

  Ásmundr staked his sword in the ground and hung over his waist, his hands braced on his knees. Breathless and spattered with blood, he caught Vigfúss looking back. Holding each other’s gaze, the two exchanged a nod of approval and went their separate ways.

  Chapter Thirteen

  After Gustaf had led his men a few kilometers northeast of Skíringssalr along the Numedalslågen River, Jørgen finally rode up to his side. Moments of silence passed as they trotted abreast. Gustaf could feel his friend’s angst as prevalent as if Jørgen were the one sitting astride his horse and leaning into his chest instead of Æsa. “What troubles you, Jørgen?”

  “The six we left behind,” he stated. “What if they failed? Or worse, took the silver and ran?”

  “My concern is for Æsa. Once we get to higher ground, I shall double back and make certain they did as they were paid.”

  Fingernails dug into his arms as he felt Æsa’s body tense. He noticed Jørgen had also caught her reaction and before he could say anything, Jørgen amended that he would go in his stead.

  “Take Snorri with you,” Gustaf ordered. “And flank them without getting too close. I do not wish to attract any more stragglers. As long as there are five, we move on. I shall wait for you at the summit.”

  Jørgen nodded and reined his horse to the left, acquiring Snorri’s assistance. After a few short commands, the two deserted the team and galloped out of sight.

  ****

  Æsa settled into the concavity of Gustaf’s torso, welcoming the strength and warmth of his body around hers. His thick thighs braced her in the saddle as they rocked to the slow gait of the horse, while his left arm wrapped around her waist. She should have felt safe in his protective hold, but the thought of Ásmundr’s faction possibly following them into the wilderness of Norway’s extreme terrain kept her on edge for most of the journey.

  The rigidity in Gustaf’s posture didn’t help matters either. Though he maintained a credible sense of security with the handful of capable men at his command, she was not convinced he was without his own suspicion. The way he scanned the surrounding forest with overzealous eyes and identified every little sound that emerged amid the irregular thumping of horse hooves, proved he was just as guarded as she.

  “What if Jørgen and Snorri—”

  “Shh…” Gustaf hushed, giving her body a comforting squeeze. “Unless they went fishing, they will return soon.”

  His humorous jest about his men’s shortfall with the ‘slippery gilled beasts’ brought a meager grin to her lips. She savored his ability to make her smile despite the dread that hovered over her like an imminent storm.

  After several long hours of traipsing up the mountainside, they emerged from the timberline and a vast view of mountains, divided by a narrow inlet of crystalline water under an azure sky, materialized before her eyes. The colors of red and yellow from autumn’s reckoning garlanded the foothills below. Her breath caught in her throat upon seeing the splendor of such a place and for a moment, her worries fell to the wayside.

  “Where are we?” she asked, her mouth agape.

  Gustaf extended his arm over her shoulder and pointed at the horizon. “Just beyond those mountains lie the valley in which no one, not even Harold Fairhair, dares to set foot. ’Tis sacred land protected by the spell of the seið-kona who lives there, and where my men’s families have taken refuge all these years.”

  “Are we going there?”

  “As soon as we know ‘tis safe to venture through.”

  “Does it have a name?” Æsa asked, her curiosity as high as the altitude of the terra firma beneath her.

  “Dal Hinna Dauðu,” Gustaf uttered, dismounting from behind her. “Its name is not as welcoming as the poetic lilt might imply, for it means Valley of the Dead.”

  Shivers ran down her spine as a sudden chill blew through her. Much of it was due to Gustaf no longer cradling her in his embrace, but a part of her blamed the ominous place-name and the connotation of death that surrounded it. “Why are you not afraid of such a place, but the mighty King of Norway is?”

  Gustaf had already begun to untack his horse, as did the others, alleviating some of the weight while the animals grazed. “I have not been condemned to the Underworld by the curses of Halldora.”

  “Halldora is a witch?”

  “She prefers seið-kona, and you would be best to address her with naught else.”

  “And Harold ‘the Fairhair’ has been cursed by her?”

  “I am certain he would like to believe he is not. But even now that his golden hair has turned white with age, he has yet to test the validity of her spell.” Gustaf tossed the last bundle to the ground and assisted Æsa from the horse before beginning his story. “‘Tis rumored Harold once sought Halldora’s counsel, eager to know his future as king when he was but a lad. Upon a runestone, she foretold of a great man, blessed with long flaxen hair, whose domain would expand further than any king before him, should the boy offer a single lock to cast the spell in his favor. Harold, being arrogant and proud of his golden mane, laughed at Halldora, declaring she was naught more than a senseless old shrew with a talent for conjuring up illusions and false prophecies on the face of a fanciful carved stone. He threw his battle-ax at the boulder and it shattered at her feet. As he turned to leave on his prized stallion, Halldora called upon the powers of the seiðr and cast the fragments of stone in a wide circle, encompassing the entire valley and those few standing within it. A few uttered words later, Harold’s horse lit up in flames and she vowed the same would happen to him should he ever step foot beyond the perimeter again.”

  “And you believe this?” Æsa asked skeptically, as Gustaf heaved his belongings on his back and carried them over to the base of a tree.

  “‘Tis not important if I believe it, or even you. What matters is that Harold believes it. As long as he fears Halldora, my men’s families are safe.”

  “And what about your family?” she inquired, knowing they li
ved off the west coast of Ireland.

  “My brother, Dægan, never knew of Halldora or this place. He found a better home for our people, far away from Harold’s reach, where they would not need to live in secret.”

  Æsa was surprised he mentioned his deceased brother. In all honesty, she wanted to know more about his family as he hardly ever spoke of them. He was a man who shared more than any other male she’d ever known, except for when it came to his family. She assumed it was because he spent so much of his life without them, never speaking of them in order to safeguard their lives.

  As she watched him unroll two hides on the ground, she dismissed asking him about his loved ones. “We are staying here for the night?”

  “Autumn has come and daylight hours grow short. The further inland we go, the colder it gets, especially at night. We are going to need a fire to survive.” He walked away, exchanging words with his men and sending two in search of nourishment, one to tend the horses, and the last to gather wood for a fire. The only warrior who did not receive a command was Øyven, who remained near his horse, tending to his feathered friend.

  In the short time she’d spent with his men, she noticed Øyven often kept to himself, unless Snorri was around to badger him. He stood out as the youngest of the group, his true age hidden behind a face full of soft scruff. His eyes were kind and his smile, on rare occasions when he chose to display it, lit up his youthful appearance.

  Æsa walked over to him, watching how he regarded the falcon with tenderness and care. “May I stay with you for awhile?”

  Øyven’s eyes searched for Gustaf, probably seeking his chieftain’s approval before answering. Æsa noted the look the two men swapped, as if an unspoken permission was granted, and rolled her eyes. “Does he ever let you think for yourself?”