The Temperate Warrior (26 page)

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 turned 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 and 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.

“He killed her because she tried to protect me. She’d made attempts to dissolve their marriage on the grounds that he was an unfit father and went as far as pleading her case to the annual council. Behind his back, she implored the help of the neighboring chieftains who met to provide just rulings for public disputes and private affairs. In fact, Gustaf’s father, Rælik, was one of those who ruled in favor of her. After killing her, Ragnar pretended to be the grieving husband and erected a beautifully carved rune stone in her honor so no one would suspect him of murder. Incidentally, when Harold ‘the Fairhair’ petitioned him and nine others to get rid of a few powerful and persuasive chieftains, Rælik included, he jumped at the chance.”

Æsa’s stomach now turned over for more reasons. It was bad enough she shared a bed with the man who’d killed Gustaf’s father, but to know Ragnar played such a personal part in Rælik’s demise sent her insides into a rumble.

Ásmundr seemed to notice her struggle, but kept on anyway. “Knowing my father, he would have gladly done the deed without payment, but he was rewarded nonetheless. And you,” he emphasized, sliding to his knees in front of her before ripping her face from the pot, “will help me find it or so help me Odin, I will slit you from ear to ear. Do you understand?”

Though she felt the sharp edge of his dagger press against her jaw, it took everything she had not to vomit down his neck as he held her throat at an awkward angle. She slowly nodded her head and hoped he’d release his hold in her hair before her stomach decided to disgorge its contents.

“Ragnar took everything from me when he killed my mother in cold blood! I deserve to find that silver. ’Twill be mine!”

Withdrawing his knife, he threw her forward and marched back outside. Tears burned in her eyes as she lay on the dirt floor. She curled up in a ball and wrapped her arms around her belly, hugging the tiny baby that lived within.

In that moment, she understood the drastic measures Ásmundr’s mother went through to protect her son and the sheer terror she must have felt living with Ragnar.

A generation later, Æsa now dwelled in that woman’s shoes as she’d looked their son in the eye. It all made sense.

For Ragnar, it was not about hiding the silver so no one could find it. It was about vengeance and settling a score. Ásmundr claimed to have known his father well, but it seemed she knew him better. Cringing with revulsion, she knew exactly where Ragnar had buried the blood money used to kill Rælik—it was undoubtedly placed beneath the earth alongside Ásmundr’s mother for retribution.