Dómarr spat at Ragnar’s feet. “May the Skogsrå take you, though I doubt you’d know what to do with her.”
Ragnar did not rise to the smear and let Dómarr and the others collect their things. They were escorted past the horses to make sure they didn’t steal any. Meanwhile, Ragnar ordered the camp dismantled and the remaining fourteen men onto their horses.
Fourteen men. When I once had thirty. When I once had a thousand.
He pushed them north as hard as was safe to do so. The uneven forest floor made their pursuit treacherous, but no one begged to slow their pace. If they did, they would be left behind. Above the forest the sun hid behind a bank of grey clouds that wouldn’t lift. The air turned damp and the sky threatened rain that did not fall.
Ragnar kept watch for the traitors’ tracks, but however they made their journey to the stronghold, they did not go the same way. He marked off the landmarks as they crossed them, splashing through the river where its path split, passing the tree that looked like a sleeping troll. Again, no sign of them, but that didn’t matter. Ove and Børge knew the way and would not get those turncoats lost. Børge had been close to Jöns; could this be retribution for his death? None could blame him for it; Jöns had been unlucky.
He comforted himself with the knowledge that they would not have traveled far or fast while night lay thick, but a lead was still a lead and one he had to close.
Night fell swift and the way became treacherous. Malik rode up beside him and asked to halt and make camp. He would have kept going, but his backside yelped from a day in the saddle, and his energy had flagged. He could not fight all those ingrates single-handedly, and though he hated to allow a greater interval, he saw sense in stopping. Once they reached the stronghold, he’d have a better idea of which way they had absconded with his treasure. Still, he ignored Malik’s pleas until he chose to stop. When he did, more than a few men swore thanks to God.
One spot was as good as any to make their camp, and the first to dismount struck a fire to ward off the chill, while others tended to the horses. Men took their horses down for water at a nearby stream. A hand took the reins from Ragnar while he oversaw the operations. No doubt they’d return with stories of the young, handsome Strömkarlen playing them a song on his fiddle. Little did they know they had worse things to worry about in these forests, such as wolves that would think nothing of picking off a man or two in the dark night.
The fire light struggled to permeate the gloom. It blanketed him and made him restless for action. Where were those traitors now? How far ahead had they pushed? How much would they steal? And why would Åke leave him?
Because Åke was not Absolon.
They settled with whatever drink they’d been able to carry, and a slim meal of dried meat. It sat cold in his belly. No one spoke. The crackle of the fire and the smacking of their lips sounded loud in Ragnar’s ears. He looked from face to face, Vígarr sullen, Nias angry, Malik anxious—
Anxious for what?
And as Ragnar studied him, Malik turned to look back into the darkness, then back to the fire, then out again. His leg twitched. He tapped his hand on his thigh. Food uneaten. Nobody moved as much as Malik.
“Malik.” Ragnar’s voice sounded loud in the stillness and turned all heads. “What’s the matter?”
His mouth opened and closed. “It’s…it’s probably nothing, Ragnar.”
“Out with it. Whatever your fears are I would have them dealt with so they may not infect your heart any longer.”
“It’s Tordur.” Malik swallowed. “He’s not here.”
Ragnar cast his gaze around the assembled group. Thirteen.
The men grew restless.
“He’s probably tending to their horses down by the stream.”
“He didn’t go down there,” Malik said. “I would have seen him. I checked everyone who was with us.”
Ragnar stood. “Tordur!"
His voice cut through the crisp forest air and carried the desperate tinny tone of his cry.
Nothing answered.
He called again and received the same response.
“I don’t like this, Ragnar. He wouldn’t have left on his own. Not without his share.”
“He’s probably taking a piss. What else could it be?”
“The Skogsrå.”
“Stop that nonsense! There is no such thing. The only thing that can take your soul is God, and even He doesn’t want yours. Go search for him if you wish, but at this time of night that kind of foolishness can get you killed, and not by some figment of a drunkard’s imagination.” He roared out the last of it, shutting their mouths.
In that silence the crack of a thick stick breaking under foot shocked them into standing and drawing swords. They faced towards the sound and the nothingness it came from.
Ragnar forced speech past his heart clogging his throat. “You see? That will be him returning now.” He called out Tordur’s name.
A shadow moved in the gloom, too far out of the fire’s light to discern to whom it belonged, and the sound of something large moving through the air caught them. Their eye turned to the moving blackness out and over them, and they tracked it with their eyes as Tordur’s body fell from the sky and landed on the fire. Embers exploded into the air, scattering his men as they cried out.
Ragnar watched, silent and numb, as they failed to corral their fear. Instead of running towards whatever had attacked, most ran away. The dark swallowed them, and their pleas for mercy were cut short, one by one.
Ragnar’s heart had stopped, his stomach had turned to iron. He stayed by Tordur’s burning corpse, his sword-point up. Malik ran back to him. No more screams pierced the night. Had any of his men escaped? Considering the speed with which they’d been dispatched, he found it unlikely.
And they had all died because of his failure. Again.
“Prepare yourself.” He and Malik stood back to back. Breath heavy and white in the air, the smell of burning flesh stung in his nose. Heavy footsteps turned his head, and he peered across the fire. The shadows took on shape and detail as their attacker emerged out of the darkness. This was it.
The monster was there.
Yet the closer he got, the more familiar he became until the light revealed their tormentor.
“Absolon?”
It came out barely more than a whisper, but in his heart, he knew it for truth and recoiled. Absolon with his almost-white hair, sharp chin, long and thick arms, his brutish build. His mouth twisted in the sneer that he wore in battle. Hate and malice filled his eyes…
Absolon the Berserker.
There was no doubt who’d killed those men and yet he was unarmed.
Malik roared and charged with sword raised to strike, fear spurning him into recklessness. He leapt over Tordur’s funeral pyre, swinging his sword down clumsily and exposing his side to attack. Absolon ducked as he landed, and faster than Ragnar’s eye could track, grabbed Malik’s sword arm and broke it in his grasp. Malik dropped his weapon with a cry, and Absolon splayed his hand through the ties of Malik’s shirt to press his palm against his chest.
Malik twitched, like Absolon had plunged his hand through his ribcage and seized his heart, and within seconds, stopped and died. Absolon dropped his body to the floor.
How had Absolon done that with the barest touch? On the battlefield he had beaten men into unconsciousness with one blow of his fist and hacked his way through a score of men, but this deathly touch filled Ragnar with a palpable dread. He held his sword with both hands as Absolon advanced but sweat slicked his palms and his grip was not as sure as usual.