The Temperate Warrior (22 page)

From behind him, Gustaf heard the man on the ground finally pull his leg free and curse like mad as he hobbled to regain his sword. He assumed the wounded man was their leader for no one spoke or struck out against Gustaf as he grappled with his injury.

Gustaf glimpsed over his shoulder just in time to take in the man’s angry face, but didn’t recognize him. He wasn’t familiar with any of the assailants, making him hard pressed to understand the objective of their assault. Were they seeking vengeance upon him or were they after Æsa?

His question was soon answered as the man on foot approached her.

Gustaf spun on his heels, pain shooting like fire through his thigh. “Get away from her!” The four others, circling him on horseback, no longer held his attention. He glared at the audacious man who ignored him, sheathed his sword, and knelt on one knee beside Æsa. The man stroked her cheek with the back of his hand and dropped his knuckles beneath her jaw at her jugular.

Gustaf’s blood boiled as he was forced to watch this man touch her. He wanted to rush forward, stake his broad sword in his foe’s beating heart, and pluck it from his chest. But he stood still and quiet—eager to know if Æsa still lived.

The man breathed a sigh of relief and stood, glaring at the mounted archer. “She lives, fortunate for you.” His cold gray eyes turned to Gustaf and a sinister grin lifted the corner of his mouth. “As for you…you could not be less fortunate. The fact that you still breathe in my presence is a regrettable circumstance.”

“Who are you?” Gustaf barked, adjusting his grip on the hilt. Inside, he begged the bastard to step within swordarm’s reach so he could run him through.

“I doubt you would know my name, but Æsa here,” he stated, gesturing toward her lifeless body, “knows me very well.” He blatantly groped his crotch with his right hand as if to boast that he’d pleasured her in the past.

Gustaf swallowed the bile that rose in his throat, his gut twisting, his body shaking with fury. He caught a glimpse of a silver ring on the man’s hand and recognized it like a slap in the face. “So, ‘twas you who planted Ragnar’s ring for Æsa to find on Skúvoy.” His mind continued to turn over the events following their departure from the Faroes. He recalled the five men who followed them by boat and the large sum of silver he paid to have them killed. Jorgen and Snorri had confirmed that five lay dead in the forest, but evidently it was not the correct group of men who’d met their fates.

The man’s laughter interrupted Gustaf’s thoughts. “I can see you are quite confused. Allow me to enlighten you.” He paced back and forth as he spoke. “You generously gave a group of six men a massive amount of silver to keep me from following you, but you failed to divvy it up between them. Your mercenary payment remained in one man’s pocket and thus, making it easier for me to offer him a better, more profitable deal. You see, I proposed that he keep the sum himself, guaranteeing he would be five times richer and, of course, alive to spend it…if he just walked away. I assume you are smart enough to fill in the rest.”

His conceited smile sliced right through Gustaf.

“Every man has a price,” he continued to orate. “And I am willing to wager Æsa has one as well. Care to find out what that might be?”

“Touch her and you die,” Gustaf warned, pointing his sword directly at the man’s chest.

Again the man laughed, unshaken by the threat. “It bears mentioning that you are quite taken with the whore.” He wagged his brows in a taunting manner. “So, this should be interesting.” Gazing at Æsa, he lowered himself to his good knee and brushed her hair from her face.

Gustaf leapt forward, but the four on horseback halted his progress, their swords positioned to take him down with one fatal swipe. His heart hammered in his chest. His pulse pounded in his ears as his vision blurred. He was incapable of moving without enduring some sort of injury from the three blades ready to cut him to pieces, if not the one bow nocked with an arrow for his heart. His mind searched for a way to escape their guard, but nothing proved to be fortuitous. Every scenario left him gravely wounded and powerless to save Æsa. He’d have to bide his time until an opportunity presented itself. If one never turned up, he concluded he’d die honorably to initiate one. He would not go down without a fight.

“Æsa, love,” the man crooned, feigning sincerity. “Open your eyes. I have a surprise for you.” He shook her gently and for a few long moments whispered words Gustaf could not hear.

Gustaf grew restless as he watched this man try to rouse her from sleep. He hated to think what this milksop would do once she came to, the twisted things he’d make Æsa choose between. Silently, he prayed to his Almighty Odin that she’d not awaken and become a pawn in this bastard’s game. After that, he sent up a request to Thor that his mind be clear, his body be strong, and his sword be swift and accurate. He liked to think his pleas didn’t go unheard from the gods who’d watched over him all these years, but he couldn’t help feeling very alone. His last thought was of his retreating horse and how he hoped the frightened animal would make it back to the others. Surely, someone would see the riderless steed and come looking for him—unless of course they were all too drunk to realize the oddity of such an observation. For once, he regretted stepping beyond the perimeter of the rune stones. If he’d remained within its boundaries, Halldora would have known that he and Æsa were in danger and could alert his men. As it stood, the only chance he had of someone coming to his aid was if his horse drew someone’s attention.

Trembling as he stood, Gustaf clenched his teeth. He watched the leader lower his face toward Æsa.

“I grow impatient, love.” Distaste lathered his voice. “Wake up.”

Æsa did not awaken upon his command and, with keen annoyance in his actions, the man gripped her cloak under her chin and lifted her head from the ground. “Wake up, you whore!”

His hand came down hard across her cheek and Gustaf came undone. He rushed forward, adrenaline surging through his body. He punched the horse’s muzzle in front of him and it reared, opening the circle temporarily. Gustaf seized the moment and advanced on his enemy.

He was able to take about four harrowing strides before a sword blade struck him across his back. The force jolted him forward unscathed, his thick wolf-skin cloak saving him from a debilitating wound, but he fell facedown in the dirt.

Before he could get up, he was jerked to his knees by his hair and held upright with a sword pointed at his back.

“Gustaf!”

Æsa’s voice rang true and loud, but when he looked, he found that she was held captive with a dagger at her throat. He double fisted his sword and dared to disregard the tip of the blade pressed soundly into his spine.

“Ah, Gustaf is your name,” the man who trapped Æsa under his knife said in reminiscent loathing. “Would that be Gustaf, the notorious eldest son of Rælik—the spawn of the man my father, Ragnar, killed so many years ago? I thought you dead.”

Gustaf’s brain nearly exploded. He remembered the harrowing tale that Æsa told of Ragnar’s son and how he raped her for sport. “I suppose I could say I heard the same about you, Ásmundr.”

“So, you
do
know me,” Ásmundr replied, looking down his nose at Æsa. “What else did she tell you about me?”

“Naught else of import, I assure you.”

Ásmundr’s laughter cut through the dark forest like lightning. Gustaf grew to despise that sound and swore he’d personally cut out the man’s voice box so he’d be unable to make another peep when he killed him slow and methodically.

“She is a coy little lass,” Ásmundr jibed, rubbing his crooked nose along her soft neck. “I venture to say she probably forgot to mention that we were once lovers. That together we were going in search of my father’s hidden silver—you know, the payment that Harold ‘the Fairhair’ bestowed upon Ragnar and his nine other cohorts to murder your father. But my father got jealous and banished me before I had a chance to whisk her away to safety. I vowed I would come back for her and kill my father, but it seems you and your men beat me to it. I should bestow my gratitude toward you. Alas, I shall refrain from such pleasantries given you stole what was mine.”

“I am not yours!” Æsa bellowed. “I never was!”

Ásmundr tightened his arm around her waist and pushed the blade further against her skin. “I gave you not permission to speak, Æsa. Open your mouth again and I will cut out your tongue!” When she settled down, Ásmundr praised her. “That’s it…there is the obedient
thrall
I know and love.” His eyes widened and glared at Gustaf. “Before you even think of using that sword in one desperate attempt to save this worthless woman, I suggest you drop it, lest I kill her right now.”

“Gustaf, nay!” Æsa shouted. “He lies. He will not kill me. He needs me. I am the only one who knows where the silver is buried, you know this. He cannot find the silver without my help, else he would have dug it up already.”

Gustaf was torn. What Æsa said made perfect sense, but he wasn’t so certain about Ásmundr or how much he was willing to risk. He knew the man was ruthless and greedy, much like his father. If he were a betting man, he would’ve called his bluff. Ultimately, her life was at stake and he wasn’t willing to take that gamble.

To his surprise, Ásmundr released his hold on Æsa and sheathed his dagger. “What she says is true. I do need her. I cannot find the silver without her. Which means…” he said, drawing out his words on purpose as his eyes came to rest on Gustaf’s, “I have no use for you.” He locked gazes with the man standing behind Gustaf. “Kill him.”

“Nay!” Æsa screeched, running to Gustaf’s aid, but Ásmundr yanked her back.

Gustaf spun wildly to his left, his sword mowing the legs of his foe like a scythe. The man collapsed without rendering a single injury to Gustaf’s back and screamed in pain at the stubs of bloodied flesh below his knees. Gustaf twirled his sword in his hands, tip downward, and thrust it deep into the suffering man’s chest.

Righting to his feet, Gustaf turned to take on the next man who posed the most threat—the mounted archer. He bent, dodging another sword swing aimed at his head, and snatched a dagger from his boot sheath. With precision and speed, he launched it in a sideways throw. The blade found a home in the archer’s shoulder, sending him off the back of the horse.

From behind, the other adversary jumped from his mount and tackled Gustaf to the ground. He grasped the broken arrow sticking out of Gustaf’s shoulder and shoved it inward. Gustaf howled, dropping his sword and elbowing the man in the face. His opponent proved to have a savage doggedness equal to his own and never let go. Instead, the man wrapped his muscled arm around Gustaf’s neck and applied pressure with a clench he’d be hard put to escape.

Struggling to breathe, Gustaf beat his fists on the man’s head and tore at his eyes, anything to get him to release his chokehold. All his efforts failed and slowly he felt his world going dark. Blackness started to seep in around him and he could do little to stop it.

At the last instant before unconsciousness overtook him, Æsa’s shriek sparked his eyes to flash open. He couldn’t die this way nor could he allow Ásmundr to inflict any more pain on her. He couldn’t let Ásmundr win.

Breathe
! he willed himself.
Live
!

“Please, Ásmundr!” Æsa called in fright. “I will do whatever you want! I will tell you where the silver is buried, but you must let Gustaf live! If you kill him, I will take it to my grave! I swear it!”

Finally, Gustaf’s lungs filled with air. The arm around his neck dropped and he crumpled to the ground, gasping for oxygen. He coughed, choked, dragged a sliver of air into his dry, constricted throat, and collapsed in another fit of coughing. In the course of his struggle, he squinted through watery eyes to search for Æsa. He found her on her knees, begging at Ásmundr’s feet.

Gustaf made a solemn promise: he would kill Ásmundr, indeed, but not before he shoved him to his knees. Then and only then would he be satisfied. He wanted to confess his oath for all to hear, to shout it aloud for Ásmundr to know his future fate, but he couldn’t speak any more than he could defend against the two men who grabbed him by both arms and hoisted him to his knees.

Ásmundr propelled Æsa backward and approached Gustaf as he was confined with his arms behind him. “You know not when to quit, do you? Do you desire death, Gustaf? I can make it happen.”

Æsa crawled to him, pleading. Try as Gustaf may to reassure her and warn her to stay back, his vocal cords received too much damage to work. Ásmundr backhanded her and continued to taunt him, despite Gustaf’s attempt to burst free.

“Or perhaps your irrational need to risk your life for her is compelled by a foolish, blind love?” He glanced toward Æsa and looked at Gustaf askance. “I wonder who she would choose. Let us find out.”

Gustaf growled, thrashing at the arms that held him secure.

Ásmundr smiled coldly. “Come here, love.”

Æsa kept her eyes on Gustaf as he shook his head to instill his objection to her obeying. He gnarled his teeth, hoping she’d just leave him behind and run for her life. He willed her to flee, implored it with every ounce of his being, but she didn’t take flight.

She came to her feet and did as Ásmundr bid her.

Ásmundr crossed his arms and stared at her. “You want him to live?”

Frantically, she nodded.