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.”
He kept his tongue and didn’t want to raise more fear than necessary. Their packs were still there, supplies untouched. They could not embark on that journey without provisions and they had not taken horses. If they had set course for the north, he could overtake them.
“But what if they do not?” he said, more to himself than to Vígarr.
“Then the Skogsrå has them and may God have mercy on their souls.” Vígarr said it so off-handedly but in the light of the small fire his eyes seemed fixed and dead.
He settled close to the fire, wedged in among his sleeping comrades, with his back up against a tree. He would keep watch for any who returned and would welcome them with open arms. But even this close to the fire, he could not warm the chill encasing his heart. Something had happened to his men, whether desertion or worse, and his dreams sputtered like the crackling embers, casting bright flickers that were snuffed out in the darkness.
Dawn’s icy touch shocked Ragnar into wakefulness and he berated himself for falling asleep. The fire had long since burned out and cold had stiffened his bones. He rocked out of his seated position, his ass sore from the hard ground. Aches rippled through his back. He cracked his neck. He dusted himself down, straightened his coat and trousers, and rubbed his face of the last remnants of sleep. “Wake up!" It felt good to speak loud and rough and send the remnants of his nightmare fleeing.
The men stirred and scratched themselves. He counted them. And he counted them again. Excepting Åke, six were missing. His chest hollowed. Had he counted wrong the night before? It wasn’t possible. He’d tallied their bodies multiple times. His heart kicked up a notch. More deserters? None would have woken before him—he was a light sleeper—but maybe they had snuck away.
Or never returned.
He grabbed his sword and strode off to check the horses. He knew he’d counted them right; when he’d done so, fear had not yet clouded his mind. He’d counted twenty-five, but when he did so again there were eighteen. When had they stolen the horses? How had they not whinnied and bucked and pulled him from his restless slumber? But if Åke were involved, he could imagine it. Seductive, alluring Åke with his horse magic. What was this plot that he’d stumbled upon?
Rage boiled his fear into vapor and he stormed back to the remaining men.
“Get up! Which of you knew of this treachery?” He kicked at a still sleeping Nias.
“What treachery?”
The men scrambled from their beds and hurried out of reach of his rage.
He rounded on them. “Those ungrateful swine, your brethren, they have deserted us. They have taken the horses and intend to rob us of what is rightfully ours.”
“So, you think they are right to steal from us? Did you help them?”
“My loyalty is not to be questioned, Ragnar. I stayed. I searched for your little plaything. I returned.”
Ragnar punched Nias in the face, and he fell to the ground, his nose wet with blood. “I will not suffer your insolence over who I have in my bed.”
“You mean you won’t be questioned for your blindness, like over Jöns.”
Ragnar would run the blackguard through, but Malik held him back.
“Brothers, this is not the moment to fight,” Malik said. “Ragnar, why would they take the horses? They wouldn’t risk waking us.”
“They would if they had Åke,” Nias muttered.
Ragnar rounded on him again, but he was quick to back away.
“The spoils from yesterday are still here,” Malik said. “Why go to the trouble of stealing the horses but not the loot?”
“For a quick getaway. They are cowards and thieves and—”
“We are all thieves, Ragnar. Do not count yourself any different.”
“Then what do you suggest, Malik?”
“I don’t believe they would betray us, but if it would help you rest easy, we should split up. Some should head north to check on the stronghold, the rest stay behind in case they come back.”
“And which group will you be putting yourself into?”
Malik put up his hands. “I will stay behind if that is your wish.”
“Ah yes, so you can be here when they return and run off with them.” Who knew how many hours head start they had?
“You’ve been stuck in the woods too long, Ragnar. You’re seeing shadows where there are none.”
Could he risk revealing his treasure’s location? What would stop them from killing him when they got there? Loyalty? Ha! But if he went alone, he could not hope to win against the seven he might encounter. He needed these men and their violence in the years ahead if he were to gain enough power and infamy to see his father humbled at his feet. He had to trust them a while longer.
He forced down his rage, his muscles softening as he breathed. “Very well. We ride. Now. All of us.” He marched over to his bedding and started to pack. Some moved, others did not.
“We will not go with you.” Dómarr stood with four other men. “We are leaving the forest.”
Ragnar straightened. The others stopped to watch. “Why?”
“You have failed to protect us. You lost one of our men in the battle yesterday, and the Skogsrå has taken others. We have been warned and it’s time we left.”
“The Skogsrå? Have you lost your mind? Do you believe in children’s stories? What else? The nøkker are plotting against us? I hear no violins.”
He didn’t hear anything but the blood pounding in his ears.
“There is no plot. We watched Ove walk into the forest to search for Åke at your request. We hurried back to where we saw him last and look, we found his hat. He was taken. We will heed this warning.”
Words failed him. Their babbling of horrors roaming the forest trapped them in his throat. Could something have taken them? Nobody moved as they awaited his response. Their fear could not be allowed to triumph. Ove probably dropped the hat in his haste. That explained it. A flick of Ragnar’s hand cast away their miasmic terror.
“Take your warning then and your leave, but you will go with nothing but the clothes on your backs.”
Dómarr reared up. “We demand our share of what we stole yesterday. We fought alongside you. That is fair.”
“Deserters get nothing.” He drew his sword and hoped their intimacy with his prowess would be enough to deter them from an attack.
“Easy, Ragnar. We want no argument.”
“And neither do I. You have shown the yellow of your souls and there shall be no quarrel over the nothing that you are entitled to.” He kept facing the five, but his awareness widened to the rest of his group. “Those of you who remain may travel with me to retrieve their fortunes and after that you will be allowed leave to go as you wish. Those who depart now get nothing and should be thankful I don’t take their lives in payment.” He turned to them. “What say you?”
Doubtful looks cast between them, but most gathered behind his back. He worried he would be run through by some duplicity, but they did not test him. Three, however, joined the five whose foolish fears forbade them from returning their fealty.
“So be it. I’ll allow you to gather your packs.”
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 the
y 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.
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