The Temperate Warrior (24 page)

Were Ásmundr and his men returning? Øyven’s head snapped in the direction of the sound, terrified that he was useless to defend his vulnerable chieftain. He was without a sword or weapon and would surely die if they’d come back to finish the job.

“Øyven! Where are you?”

He heard Jørgen’s frantic voice and breathed a sigh of relief. “Here! I need help! Gustaf is dying! Hurry!”

Snorri and Jørgen burst from the darkness and descended from their steeds with lightning speed, sliding to their knees at Gustaf’s side. Their eyes were wide, their faces dismayed with unanswered questions swimming in their minds. There was no time to explain.

Without a word, Snorri grabbed Gustaf’s arm and jerked his lifeless chieftain’s body forward, hauling him over his shoulder. Staggering from the weight, he carried him to his horse and threw him across the front of the saddle. Mounting behind him, he spun his horse around and dashed away.

Jørgen exchanged a helpless look with Øyven. “Who did this?”

“He said Ásmundr and he took Æsa.”

“Why?”

“I did not get to ask. Gustaf was dying…” Øyven hung his head, feeling as if his whole world was caving in around him. Gustaf was not only a dear friend, but a father figure after he’d lost his whole family to Fairhair’s expanding reign. Gustaf took him in and gave him a purpose in life, something no one else cared to provide.

As Øyven stared at his feet in sorrow, a white scrap of cloth caught his eye. Tattered and stained with blood, he noticed the colorful embroidered stitches dotting the fabric. He picked it up and gazed at Jørgen. Both were filled with dread as they realized it was Æsa’s gift to Gustaf, the one he always had tucked in his sleeve—and she was no where to be found.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Halldora ripped open Gustaf’s tunic, assessing his multiple wounds as Helga and Gustaf’s loyal men stood helplessly around her. A blazing fire crackled in the old woman’s hearth and herbs of every kind hung within reach in the rafters above their heads. Vials of various liquids, pastes, and poultices lined a shelf on the back wall and strange animal skulls stared at them from the thatched ceiling.

Standing in Halldora’s home was enough to make any man feel a little uneasy, but the single ghastly sight of Gustaf pierced with arrows and stabbed below his ribs was more unraveling than all the oddities contained here.

Øyven cringed as Halldora carefully inserted her bony fingers inside Gustaf’s knife wound and felt around. He could only assume she did so to make sure no vessels had been severed or his vital organs damaged. When she retracted her fingers, she said nothing, but a look of relief eased across her brow. At least one thing fell in his chieftain’s favor.

“I knew we should have ridden closer to the five dead in the forest instead of just counting them,” Snorri muttered bitterly. “We would have known we were still being followed.”

Øyven watched as Jørgen closed his eyes with shame. “I did as I was told.”

“You failed him!” Snorri barked, pointing an accusatory finger. “You failed to protect the man who has always protected you! I told you we should have looked at their faces! You would not listen to me! And now, our chieftain fights for his life because of your mistake!”

“Enough!” Halldora bellowed. “You do Gustaf no good blaming each other. He hears you and yet he blames only himself. He grows weaker as he holds onto his regret. I need him to be strong and I need you to hold your tongue, Snorri.”

Snorri grumbled, but kept his thoughts to himself.

“What can we do, Halldora?” Jørgen asked, his voice straining with guilt.

Halldora ignored Jørgen’s question and placed her hands on Gustaf’s bare chest. She closed her eyes and listened. Her wrinkled face puckered even more over the picture she saw through his thoughts. “He is filled with rage. His heart beats in wild succession as this Ásmundr fellow hits Æsa. She is begging at Ásmundr’s feet, but he does not care. He taunts Gustaf. He forces Æsa to make a choice. She stands proud and comes into Ásmundr’s arms.” Halldora gasps. “She kisses him.”

“That bitch!” Snorri snarls. “She played us.”

Øyven took complete offense to Snorri’s allegation. “Æsa would not do that.”

“Then why did she betray Gustaf in such a way?”

“I know not. Perhaps she felt she could distract Ásmundr long enough—”

“You are blind and naïve, Øyven! I always knew she had an evil side, but you all refused to admit it because Gustaf was smitten with her.”

“She loves him,” Øyven insisted. “She would not do this.”

“She is a whore! Whores do not know what love is!”

Halldora’s eyes flashed open. “One more outburst and I will throw you both out myself.”

Snorri quickly clamped his mouth shut, but Øyven was not so obedient. “Æsa loved him, Halldora. You know this as well as I. Ask Gustaf why she kissed Ásmundr.”

The old woman closed her eyes again and tried to hear Gustaf’s thoughts, while everyone else was held in suspense. Her fragile hands trembled upon his chest and her silver brow furrowed over a troubled face. “She kisses him to make him believe she loves him. She promises to help him find the hoard of silver he desires if he promises to let Gustaf live.” She listened intently as if his thoughts had become more difficult to hear, until suddenly she yanked her hands away. Gasping, she shook her hands as if they’d been burned and looked fearful into Øyven’s eyes. “Ásmundr did not uphold his end of the bargain and Gustaf knew his fate before ’twas sealed with that kiss. If Gustaf lives through this, there will be no stopping him in his vengeance. I have never felt this kind of fury from one man. In essence, Gustaf will be the epitome of the
berserker,
and if you value your lives, you will not stand in his way.”

Øyven came to her on bended knee. “He must live, Halldora. Vengeance or not, he must live. Please.”

Her tired gray eyes searched over the seven warriors in the room. “I will need four strong men to hold Gustaf down. I have to extract the arrows and cauterize the wounds before he has any chance.”

Helga piped up. “My hands are smaller and steadier than yours, Grandmother. I will remove the arrows if you tell me how.”

“Can you stomach it, child?”

Helga did not hesitate in her reply.

“And I will be one of the strong four,” Øyven volunteered readily.

Halldora cocked her head with pity. “My dear lad, I know you mean well. ’Tis not the strength of your body I need, but the strength of your mind. Gustaf will howl in pain all through the night as we do this. Your heart cannot take it. His screams will haunt you, I know this.”

“I will block it out,” he argued.

“You want to help your chieftain?” Halldora asked. “Then take Ketill and Ulfr with you and search for Æsa. Find her and bring her back safely.”

Øyven nodded once with determination and leapt to his feet. He would do this for Gustaf because he knew Gustaf would do it for him. As he marched past the hearth, he locked eyes with Snorri. The two men scowled at each other, holding each other’s glare. For once, Øyven would not be the first to look away. He stood his ground until Snorri gave in and turned his head.

Satisfied that Snorri had yielded, he reached for the door and pulled it open, only to be stopped by Snorri’s hardened grasp on his forearm.

“You are going to need this,” Snorri said, gifting him with his own leather belt that held his sheathed sword.

Øyven was quite surprised. Snorri was not the kind of man to admit when he was wrong, or apologize when he was out of line. He was a warrior who reacted solely on instinct and barreled through with adrenaline and muscle might, leaving no room for second guesses or petty pardons. Knowing this was Snorri’s way of extending a peace offering, he accepted the weapon and hurried out the door.

****

Halldora was right. Gustaf’s continual cries of pain had plagued his mind as he and Jørgen’s sons saddle up and rode long into the wee hours of the night searching for Æsa. He heard his agonizing screams echo in his head the entire time they’d made a sweeping pass of the surrounding area. Traveling as far as several kilometers north of Lake Mjøsa didn’t ease his torment either. As Halldora predicted, he was haunted by it and there was no way to make it stop.

Though Øyven grew weary, he doubled back, returning to the scene of the massacre. The only thing he recovered was Gustaf’s bloody sword lying near the place where he’d fallen. By sun up, their extensive pursuit had come to a disappointing end and the three men barely had enough strength to keep their eyes open.

After they cared for their spent horses, Øyven dragged his fatigued, sorrowful body to the door of Halldora’s hut, Gustaf’s sword in hand. Gazing at the intricately decorated weapon of rubies and silver filigree, he couldn’t bring himself to enter. He hadn’t come back empty-handed, so to speak, since he found the weapon that once belonged to Gustaf’s father, but he did fail to recover what he knew Gustaf treasured most.

He imagined the pain Gustaf had endured under Halldora’s care would be nothing compared to waking and finding Æsa gone without a trace. With the weight of her disappearance and his chieftain’s poor condition, Øyven leaned against Halldora’s door and slid down until his bottom hit the ground. His eyes automatically closed as he rested his weary head on his knee and for one small moment, sleep overcame him.

****

Øyven fell backward as Halldora’s door was pulled open. The sword he’d been reverently holding fell from his grasp and clanged against the wooden threshold. He shook the sleepiness from his head and blinked repeatedly, seeing Gustaf’s men exiting in a slow, single-file line. Each man looked as if he’d aged ten years, their sorrow blanketing them like a linen-wrapped corpse.

Øyven gathered Gustaf’s sword and jumped to his feet. “How does he fair?”

Snorri kept walking. “He sleeps. Halldora gave him a potion to help him rest.”

“Will he be all right?”

“Only time will tell.”

This was not the news Øyven wanted to hear, but it was better than he’d feared given the grief-stricken appearance of the six depleted warriors staggering out.

Looking back toward Halldora’s door, where his chieftain lay on the other side, it beckoned him to enter. Teeth clenched, heart constricted, he took a deep breath and pushed inside.

The scene took his breath away. Blood-soaked cloths lay in a heap on the matted floor. Basins of bloody water sat on every flat surface of the old woman’s home. Golden flames danced in a warm crackling fire in the hearth, but every soul in the room lay quiet and still, eyes closed.

Halldora slept slumped in a rickety chair. Wisps of thinning, silver hair fell over her ashen face, which told of her great efforts this night. Helga lay in the boxbed to the right, her appearance just as disheveled as her grandmother’s. To the left, lay Gustaf on his back, his freshly sewn wounds standing out like embroidery stitches on a tapestry, yet more crude in nature. His body had been divested of his soiled clothing and they now lay at his feet on the boxbed. Draped across his waist was a thick animal hide, his bare feet sticking out at the end.

Gustaf looked massive as he lay upon the narrow bed half-naked, but given the disturbing stillness of his body, he emanated the quintessential notion of a conquered warrior who’d fought his last battle and would never rise to lift his sword again.

“I know ’tis difficult for you to look upon this man,” Halldora’s voice broke through the silence. “A man you have always respected and looked up to…and see him in such a vulnerable state.”

Øyven said nothing, but knew she’d heard the doldrums of his mournful thoughts. He neared his chieftain and laid the prized weapon at his side. He hoped the sword would one day find its way back into Gustaf’s grasp, where it could be wielded to help right the wrong and bring swift justice to his foes. He couldn’t bear the thought of the blade being ceremoniously buried with him, never to be brandished again.

“You need to prepare yourself, Øyven. He has lost a great deal of blood and a fever is setting in. He will grow delirious and ‘twill be more difficult to sustain him with food and water if he refuses. I will continue to care for him, but there is only so much I can do. There may come a time when his body gives up.”

Øyven squeezed his eyes shut. “There are some things you do not know, Halldora.” He turned to face her and leveled his gaze onto hers, undeterred by the old woman’s threatening stare. “If anyone can pull through this, ‘tis Gustaf. He will live.” His emotions, though he tried hard to restrain them, assaulted his senses. He clenched his jaw to stop the trembling of his lower lip and he blinked away the sting of hot tears in his eyes. “He will.” And then he stormed out.

****

Æsa sat in solitude in Lillehammer’s majestic foothills overlooking the Lågen River surrounded by mountains. The blissful scenic view of the dawn breaking over the horizon did little to ease her tormented mind, knowing she’d left Gustaf behind to guide Ásmundr to the buried silver he so greedily treasured. Sure, she had to falsely proclaim her love for the bastard and demonstrate it in a kiss he could not otherwise disprove, but she hoped Gustaf understood that she only did so to spare his life. She’d do anything to keep the father of their unborn son from being killed, even if it meant turning her back on him temporarily.