Black Monastery

Black Monastery

by William Stacey

Copyright © 2013 William Stacey

Cover designed by Scarlett Rugers Design http://www.scarlettrugers.com/

Cover illustration by Jez Art

Formatting by Polgarus Studio

Acknowledgements

To Marie and Nicole, without your love, I would be lost.

To Jennifer Carson, the best beta reader anyone could ever want. Thank you so very much.

Prologue

Hedeby, Denmark,

October 15, 783.

Asgrim had expected to be left to die where he had fallen. Instead, the others had carried the young warrior aboard the longship and somehow kept him alive during the sail home. And the two-day voyage had been agony beyond description. He had repeatedly soiled himself, begging them to let him die. They didn’t, and he didn’t. And he’d been returned to his home, where he lay in bed, tended by his mother and their servants. His face burned as though someone held a flaming torch to it, and every breath brought scalding pain. Yet through the haze of his suffering, he overheard someone, a skald most likely, promise his parents he would live.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

At that moment, another white-hot bolt of fire shot between his eyes, deep into his skull, and he cried out, bolting upright. Then someone pushed down on his shoulders, forcing him back and muttering assurances.

The pain was too much pain, far too much. Surely the skald had lied and this was death—or at least the path to death. But if so, if he were dying, why hadn’t they put a weapon in his hand to make sure he was accepted into the afterlife? He may have lost his battle, but he
had
fought it. That should count for something.

Shouldn’t it?

Sleep, when it came, was a blessed relief—at least at first. Asgrim dreamed of a longship riding high on foamy waves as men pulled at oars in unison. He smiled, feeling overwhelming camaraderie for these men and a vast sense of anticipation that sent shivers down his spine. Ahead, a green, hilly shore pulled closer, and arrows whistled over their heads: a battle, his first. The dream changed, sped up. Fire, choking smoke, the screams of women and children, the savage clash of arms, and the moans of the dying overtook his senses. Battle lust gripped him. This was living. This was what he had been born for. And then he saw the church in flames again, saw the woman and children burning, and heard their screams once more. Horror replaced his excitement.

He awoke to agony, and his misery endured. But one day became two, and he didn’t die. A week of near-constant pain passed, and somehow, he lived. The skald hadn’t lied, after all. He would survive his wounds. As one week became two, the pain became less… obscene.

He should have died in Wessex. He knew that. Everyone would have been better off if his corpse, defeated and shamed, had rotted on that beach. Death would have been preferable to disgrace. But obviously, the Nornar, the three withered crones who spun the thread of men’s lives, had other designs for him. Death in a foreign land had not been his fate, at least not yet, and a man could never change his fate.

Gloom and despair settled over Asgrim as he lay in bed, visited only by his younger brother Bjorn, his mother, and an endless stream of servants. What would he do now? What would become of a man who, on his first sea raid, had challenged his captain to a duel and lost? What captain would ever sail with such a man?

One day, he heard voices outside his room. One in particular cut through his sleep, and he bolted upright, awake instantly. His father was talking with Hrolf, right outside this room.

In almost complete darkness, he listened intently, staring at the wooden door, but it was no use. He couldn’t make out what they were saying.

Would there be blood?

And then, incredibly, his father laughed, and Asgrim’s face burned. He looked away, tenderly touching the bandages swathing his face, wincing as he did. There would be no blood and no revenge. His father had nothing to avenge. Asgrim had challenged Hrolf and lost. The duel had been fair.

He sat and waited, knowing his father would come when Hrolf left. His eyes watered, and he angrily wiped them dry, lest someone see and think him a woman. How had he fallen so low, so completely? Once, his life had been filled with promise of a glorious future. What now?

All too soon, his door opened, and his father’s large form filled the doorway. Just behind his father, looking over his shoulder, was his mother. Her blond hair glistened in the candlelight. She was still a beautiful woman.

Father and son stared at one another. Was that contempt in his father’s eyes? After a long, painful silence, his father spoke first.

“I won’t kill Hrolf.”

Be strong, he told himself. Be a man.

“I… I know,” he muttered, his voice muffled by the bandages.

“He’s my friend.”

The young man nodded.

“He could have killed you, you damned fool. He
should
have killed you.”

Fire built in his father’s voice. Despite his attempt to master his emotions and appear strong, a shiver ran through him, and he trembled like a leaf.

His father paused, then shook his head. “
I’d
have killed you.”

The pain in his heart burned far hotter than that in his face.

His mother pushed past his father, sat on the edge of the bed next to him, and ran her hand over his forehead, brushing back his hair.

“Leave him be, woman,” said his father. “He needs to toughen up, and he’s been lying about in bed too long. Sluggard would stay here all winter if I let him. It’s done between you and Hrolf, boy. It’s over. Now we move on.”

“Yes, father,” he mumbled.

His father’s features softened, if such a thing was possible, and he actually smiled. “Get yourself ready, boy. I’ve sent for Guthorm. He’ll be here in a week with his men, all the best plank-cutters and stem-smiths in Denmark. You and your brother will help. You both need to learn how to do this.”

Asgrim sat up on his elbows. “You’re going to build her now? I thought you were going to wait another winter?”

His father shook his head. “No. We do it this winter. The best gods-blessed ship any man’s ever seen. Even the earl will be jealous. And when she’s ready, we’ll raid with her, you and
I
this time, maybe your brother, as well. And when we come back, no one will remember what happened. We’ll make a proper sword-Dane out of you yet.”

His father turned to leave, but then paused and looked back over his shoulder. “I still don’t understand why you did it, but Hrolf tells me you faced him like a man. Says you even cut him, and he’s limping.” His father smiled. “Says you were fast, real fast.
Disloyal and stupid
, but so fast he almost had to kill you anyway.”

His father sighed and walked away, leaving him alone with his mother, who sat on the bed stroking his hair. They stayed like that in the candlelight for some time, neither saying anything. Finally, he spoke.

“I was fine with the fighting. The fighting was… exciting. It was
after
, the things we did after we killed all their men. I… I couldn’t…”

His mother’s gaze was sad, perhaps even understanding, and he felt like a little boy again. “The world can be harsh and cruel. But death is part of it. No man, no woman, no child can escape their destiny. You must accept this.”

He shook his head. “You don’t understand. They ran into their church to hide, the women and children. Someone set it on fire. Some didn’t… didn’t come out. They chose to burn instead of… instead of
us
. They were screaming… screaming. There was no honor. No… nothing. And those women that did come out, the men…
took
them, right there in front of their children. I couldn’t stand it, not the screaming, not the horror in the children’s faces. So… I tried to stop it. I
challenged
Hrolf.” This time, his voice did crack, and he turned his face away.

His mother shushed him and carefully held the uninjured side of his head against her bosom. “I don’t think Hrolf is an evil man. He’s just a man, with the same love for violence and plunder as all Danes. Your father is the same, but he’s also a good man, treats the slaves and servants well, does no dishonor to our family.”

“I’m sorry, mother. I’ve shamed us all.”

“No, of course you didn’t. It took courage to step onto the dueling blanket with a killer like Hrolf the Elder. You tried to defend those women and children, even though they were foreigners. There is so much good in you. You have always had a kind heart. Perhaps too kind. But you are also your father’s son.” She sighed and hugged him just a bit harder.

“Sleep now.” She stood and walked to the doorway. “There will be much blood in your life, I fear, my beautiful boy. And your father is right. You need to harden your heart—else this world will kill you. But… you must always be prepared to be a good man, to do the right thing, and make me proud.”

He couldn’t speak; instead, he simply nodded. He lay awake a long time, thinking over his mother’s words. Eventually, he drifted off into sleep. For the first time since his injury, he didn’t dream of the raid and dying children.

When Guthorm and his laborers arrived a week later, Asgrim was strong enough to move about and help with the small tasks. Thousands of little details needed to be looked after. His younger brother Bjorn, not yet twelve but already a foot taller than he was, became his shadow, never leaving his side. The famous Guthorm was a stoop-shouldered grandfather with skin like dry bark and a long, untidy grey beard that looked to still hold most of his breakfast. Asgrim’s father greeted Guthorm with much honor, embracing him like a long-lost brother and promising him whatever he required. And Guthorm quickly took over life at the manor, leveling the most profanity-laden curses the young man had ever heard at those whom he considered slackers. The old master craftsman had a better repertoire of curses than the best skald did.

Soon, their home and farmlands became so occupied with laborers that it reminded him of a termite’s mound. At first, his wounds pained him, and he found himself often having to sit and rest, but over the weeks that followed, his endurance grew. Breathing was still hard, though, and still painful.

The smell of fresh-cut wood and the pounding of axes permeated the cold winter air. Sawdust and wood chips covered the snow. The workers laid the keel two hundred paces from the inlet of the
Schlei,
which led to the sea. The keel, a single plank riven from a particularly tall oak tree, had been chosen for its slight natural bend. The plank had been soaked for two months in seawater so that the salt had thoroughly penetrated the wood, and as the wood dried, the salt became a natural proofing against rot. Whispering in wonder, men stood about the keel; it was almost fifteen paces long—far longer than any man had ever seen on a ship. To its front, they attached a false keel, a shorter plank that protected the real keel when the longship was beached. That night, when no one was around, Asgrim and Bjorn snuck out to carve their initials into the false keel.

As the days turned to weeks, the day to remove Asgrim’s bandages arrived. The skald who had originally tended his wounds returned. Asgrim’s parents, his brother, and the skald, his bony arms trembling, sat with Asgrim beside the hearth in the hall. His mother had sent away the servants and slaves. No one but family was present. As the skald carefully unwrapped the linen from Asgrim’s face, the man whispered incessantly to the land spirits, beseeching their blessings. As the last bandage slipped from his face, his mother’s eyes widened and her face whitened. Bjorn’s face twisted in disgust, and he swore.

His father scowled at Bjorn and cuffed him in the back of the head. As Bjorn mumbled an apology, his father shook his head and came closer. “How does it feel? Can you breathe through it?”

He closed his eyes, then inhaled carefully. There was pain, but he could still draw air through the ruined tissue, although it was harder than it should have been, as if the air had to fight to make it through his airway.

“I can breathe, but it feels… blocked.”

“The tissue is pushing in against the airway. It’ll improve as he grows older,” said the skald. “The nose was shattered, as were the bones around the cheek and eye socket. They’ll heal, grow harder, even tougher than before. Breathing will remain challenging perhaps, but he’ll become accustomed to it. As the years pass, he may not even remember how it was before.”

“I’ll remember,” he said.

“Will it… will it look better?” his mother asked. “In time?”

The skald exhaled, looked down at his hands. “My lady, the wounds… I don’t… I don’t think—”

“It doesn’t matter,” snapped his father. “If he can breathe through it, he can fight with a helmet over his face.
That’s
what matters. Looks are for women, not men.”

“But—”

“Leave it, wife! He’ll still be able to do everything a man needs to do. He’ll fight and raid and have strong sons.” His father draped an arm around his mother’s shoulders, pulling her against him. “It’s better than dead.”