Men bade him sing and he obliged. Keeping his rich voice low to soften their noise, he transfixed them with a ballad of Svipdagr.
He would have gladly counted himself among the wily champion’s hallowed company. One day he would. After all, had he not risen against the odds as second son to a noble family and become a great military strategist?
Never mind that his path had deviated thanks to a brilliant—yet failed—rout during a battle against the Russians. Five hundred men slaughtered, his reputation in tatters, and his rank and honors stripped. Those who’d long resented him had taken the opportunity to make his fall complete. His father, a count of ancient lineage, removed his protection once and for all and would never speak his son’s name again. In return, Ragnar would not speak his or his line’s until he took his place among Sweden’s heroes.
Then his father would know how wrong he had been.
His voice took on a hard edge as Svipdagr’s quest to speak with the shade of his dead mother grew darker. Not a man moved as he lost himself in the tale that twisted with his own.
Little more than a year had passed since he’d been forced to make his way alone. Well, not alone.
With Absolon, the farmer turned ferocious berserker. Hair whiter than Åke’s, muscles bigger, taller, broader, heart more open, more willing, more generous. Absolon—soldier, protector, lover—survived the failed strategy and deserted rather than stay where Ragnar was not. They’d endured the first winter living like common thieves hiding in the forest until Ragnar had settled on his path to restoration.
He gathered men to him, other former military who had become disillusioned one way or another, a handful of peasants who wanted a life of adventure. Absolon had stayed through it all and would have stayed until the very end if not for the others’ growing distrust and the shame they felt it brought their leader that he should be so enamored with another man. It didn’t fit the legend.
He’d had to tie Absolon to a wall to get him to stay behind. Then he had been free of him. Nothing else could have kept Absolon from his side—nor Ragnar from his—but a legend did not fall in love until after he’d won, otherwise love made him vulnerable. Love made him weak. And if he were weak, he wasn’t strong enough to reach his goal. Then who would know of him? Love was what you got as the reward when all travails were finished; Svipdagr knew that. All heroes knew that.
He knew that.
Ragnar finished his song and the men let out a heavy breath. More than one held back a tear, but his heart was cold, even when they praised him. Their cups were soon back to their mouths, and their throats wet with drink, leaving him to sink into his melancholy.
Where was Absolon now? That question opened an ache in his chest that couldn’t be filled with the men’s prattling. Ragnar drained his cup, drowned his thoughts, and went in search of Åke.
Poor substitute that he was, Ragnar could nevertheless take his frustrations out on rough, ready Åke. He could take Ragnar’s contempt against a tree as he fucked him from behind, so he didn’t have to see love in Åke’s eyes.
Åke who was not Absolon.
Ragnar picked his way across the forest floor towards the horses. Åke had not joined the others in toasting their fallen comrade. The boy wasn’t averse to joining in, but the eyes he’d given Ragnar when he’d returned held the promise of one thing. He would stay among the horses, tending to them until Ragnar came and tended to him.
His horse, Seger, whiffled at him and tossed his head. Ragnar stroked his neck, calmed him, and waited, but Åke did not appear. He walked around the horses, searching for sign of the boy.
“Åke?” He didn’t call loudly. Maybe he was back at the fire and had missed him, but surely he would have seen Ragnar leave and followed.
A fox screamed in the moonless night and the sound raised the hairs on the back of his neck. He would not take it as an ill omen. He peered into the darkness made blacker by the firelight at his back and shivered. What he wouldn’t give to be back inside four stout walls.
He returned to the fire and his men, counting faces as he went. The three men he stood closest to lifted their heads from their chatter.
“What ails you, Ragnar?”
He ignored Nias and concentrated on counting the men.
Twenty-eight.
Åke wasn’t there. Ragnar picked up a torch, plunged it into the fire to catch alight, and returned to the horses. Åke wouldn’t have left and if he had, someone would have seen him go. He counted the horses and as far as he could make out none were missing, but he admitted he didn’t know exactly how many he had. An oversight on his part. He’d grown reliant on Åke’s stewardship, a failing that he would have to rectify once the man returned.
He searched for some clue as to Åke’s whereabouts. Perhaps he’d gone for a piss behind a tree and would be back any moment, but as he circled the horses, the torchlight sweeping aside shadows that rushed back in once he passed, the light caught the glint of steel.
He crouched and the torch revealed Åke’s dagger. He widened his search in concentric circles from the spot and found, ground halfway into the dirt, the silver medallion Ragnar had given him in a moment of sentimentality. These things Åke would never abandon. Dropped? He measured the distance. Had he run off into the forest? Why?
Fingernails scratched down his spine, and he hurried back to the campfire and the men. Their conversation died to a mumble.
“Are you well, Ragnar?” Nias said.
“Where’s Åke?”
Three men snickered.
“Perhaps if Ragnar the Red wasn’t so distracted by the pretty young Åke, Jöns would still be alive.”
Ragnar struck Nias across his pock-marked face then grabbed him roughly by the shirt front. “I’ll take no insults from you.” He threw him away. “Åke’s missing. All of you fan out and look for him.”
“Easy, Ragnar,” Malik said. “He’ll come back. We all know Åke wouldn’t leave you.”
This time no one laughed at his expense, but he glowered them into putting down their cups. They drove torches into the fire and staggered off to search, sticking in groups of three or four, their footsteps slow and their heads pitching forward from their necks.
He cursed them silently. Grown men afraid of the dark.
But their fear contained some truth. Åke would not leave without reason. He checked the loot, but all was as it should be. He returned to the dropped dagger and the medallion and marched into the forest the way they led.
When he returned hours later, his men were already back and asleep in their blankets. He would have kicked them for their abandonment, but his own efforts had achieved nothing. He looked over them in case Åke had returned, but he had not. His heavy heart grew heavier once he realized there weren’t enough bodies present. Perhaps some had continued their search. Perhaps others had left him completely. He checked their plunder again and it had not been touched. He checked their faces again, waking more than a few in his frantic search.
Ove and Børge were missing, two men who knew of the vault far to the north. Could they have taken the opportunity to leave and rob him?
“Fret not, Ragnar.” Vígarr yawned and resettled beneath his blanket. “Åke and the others will return in the morning.”