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.
“Absolon? Why are you doing this?”
Absolon did not answer, but the muscle in his jaw spasmed and his nostrils flared with the air forced through them. He stood on the other side of the fire, his fingers curling into claws and the light illuminating his face’s fury. Absolon had come for his revenge.
Ragnar stepped back but he would not run. He had had his reasons for leaving Absolon behind. Good reasons. He had provided food and water. He had left him alive. Surely, he could not hold a grudge. It had been better that way.
But quick as lightning Absolon appeared by his side. Ragnar’s heart launched into his throat, which Absolon gripped with a strength he’d never known he had.
I’m going to die, and no one will care.
Absolon’s grip tightened. Ragnar dropped his sword and clawed at Absolon’s vice-like hold but to no avail. Absolon’s sapphire eyes blazed with hate, the only thing illuminating the unconsciousness amassing at the edges of Ragnar’s vision. Absolon was going to break his neck. He wanted to say something but couldn’t get his words out. Pressure increased until, with a roar, Absolon threw Ragnar to the ground.
He coughed and spluttered, gathering onto all fours and trying to speak. He looked up at Absolon to beg for—
Absolon smashed a rock into his head.
Chapter 2
When Ragnar regained consciousness, he found manacles clamped around his wrists and the forest transformed to a stone-walled room. Early morning light eked in through the solitary barred window over the stout wooden door opposite. He sat up quickly, pain shooting from his head to pummel his stomach and he rolled over and vomited up what little he had in his belly. His strength failed him, and he sank down next to his rancid waste.
The chains clinked as he gingerly fumbled around the back of his head and hissed as his fingers came into contact with the dried bloody mess matting his hair. Absolon had got him good. But he hadn’t killed him.
That was something.
That was something he could work with.
He breathed again, quelling the nausea, and raised himself into a seated position with his back against the wall, slowly this time. He shuffled back and winced but forced the pain to submit to his will. It was just a bump on the head. He couldn’t let it stop him. He had to get out.
The door looked solid enough with no rotten planks to pry loose, but perhaps the lock could be forced with enough strength. The window was too small for him to slip through even if he could remove the bars. And the dirt ground was too compact to tunnel his way out. He tilted his head back and looked at the ring embedded in the wall above him and the chains connected to it. One metal eye to hold both chains. It appeared to be driven hard into the stone. With enough strength and perhaps something to chisel around it, he could potentially wrench it loose before Absolon came.
Absolon had to come. He wouldn’t have brought him there alive if he didn’t have further designs. Why did he hunt him down? What torture would Absolon visit upon him? What revenge would he seek? As if the slaughter of thirty men and the decimation of his dreams weren’t enough. But no matter what power Absolon had, Ragnar would not capitulate. He would get free or die trying. Whatever small regard he’d had for Absolon in the past, it was all for naught. Absolon would not triumph.
As if his thoughts had been a bell summoning a servant, a key turned in the door’s lock with a scrape in the rusted mechanism. Ragnar stood slowly, using the wall to catch himself against, until he was upright. He left his arms hanging loose at his side, ready to strike or block. He relaxed his jaw. Absolon would not find him afraid.
The door opened inwards—unfortunate but not insurmountable—but before Absolon entered a small russet-haired hound rushed through the gap. The dog was the kind farmers used to hunt rabbits and foxes, and it darted towards him. Ragnar readied his legs to kick the animal, but with tail wagging, it stopped at the contents of his stomach and greedily licked it up. Ragnar recoiled, but the dog seemed happy enough, its compact and robust little body bursting with excitement as it wolfed down its meal. Within moments the floor was wet only with the dog’s saliva and its soiled muzzle was sniffing at Ragnar’s boot.
“Trogen, heel!"
At the commanding tone in Absolon’s voice the dog bounded over to the shadow blocking the door and Ragnar’s gaze followed.
Absolon stepped inside. Ragnar’s body tensed of its own accord. Would the berserker fit come upon Absolon again? He’d had to rescue the young soldier more than once from his madness, but that was when there were Danes to fight or the King’s soldiers.
That was when the enemy hadn’t been him.
But as Absolon’s face came into view, there was none of the previous night’s rage. Yet his features looked as if they had been chiseled from stone, hacked of its former and familiar joviality and kindness.
Had he imagined Absolon’s power? His hands looked as they ever did, as strong as ever but human nonetheless.
Absolon carried a pewter plate with a hunk of bread in one hand and a bucket of water with the other. The keys protruded from the lock, and Ragnar watched every second of Absolon’s approach for an opportunity to escape. Without turning his back, Absolon put the bread and water on the floor at the edge of the chain’s reach. He could not grab Absolon, even if he wanted to.
There was also the dog to worry about. Its sweet temperament may vanish at any sudden movement. Its teeth looked sharp.
Absolon looked at Ragnar but said nothing and returned to the door. He was going already? Without a word?
“What is this, Absolon? Why have you brought me here?”
Absolon ignored him and pulled on the handle. The dog scampered out. The light grew dim.
“You coward! The least you could do is give me a reason.”
Absolon stiffened, stopped, but stayed at the doorway. “You should know the reason, Ragnar.”
For all that he had him at his mercy, no joy shone on Absolon’s face at having him thus. His voice weighed heavy with sad resignation. Remorse from his captor? From the killer of his men? There was only one reason why Absolon would have done this, and it was the same one that had haunted him—along with the betrayal in Absolon’s
eyes—the past seven months.
“I left you alive, didn’t I?”
“And haven’t I don’t the same for you?”
“Yes, but for how long? You slaughtered my men and kidnapped me. Why not kill me with the rest of them?”
“It’s not your time yet.”
“Oh, you’ll torture me awhile then execute me like one of the King’s jailers? What do you want? Money? I have a lot and you can have it. I have been busy since—” Best not to mention it. “It’s hidden in…the forest.” Best not to say exactly where. “You can have it all. As payment for my life.”
Absolon sighed. “I don’t want your money.”
The dog tilted its head up at its master’s labored breath, and Absolon scratched its ears, gently, lovingly. He had always been capable of such tenderness.
Ragnar couldn’t let himself get distracted by memories. “Then what?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. You have thirty days.”
Thirty days? Why so many? Why not now? I could fight now. After thirty days in here…
“I was right to call you coward. You are not the Absolon I knew. The Absolon I knew would not baulk at slaying his enemies, would not hesitate and need to build his resolve.”
“My resolve is as strong the walls that will keep you here until your last day arrives.” He snapped his fingers and the dog ran out. He closed the door and turned the key. The sound scraped down Ragnar’s spine like a bony claw.
What deprivations did Absolon have in store? He didn’t hurry to the food though his stomach ached for filling. He had to make use of every moment.
He explored the limit of his tether, at first unsteady on his legs, but he regained confidence. How long would it be before Absolon returned? A day? A week? And what nature of jailer was he? Ragnar would have once believed him to be kind and gentle to some—at least to him—but with the look in his eye and the rage he had exacted on his band, he could not count on the false hope that Absolon was anything like the man he had once known.
The bread and water had been put at the very edge of his reach which measured shy of halfway to the door. He walked this half-circle from one wall to the next, right to left, passing his rations until at the other side sat a second bucket, empty, which he could use for his latrine. Both wooden buckets had rope handles. Apart from a couple of hay bales moldering on the far wall, there was nothing else of note that he could touch or pick up. Whatever else had been kept in there had been taken away to make way for the prisoner.
He walked as far from the wall as the chains allowed, then turned and leaned back to test their strength. Unlike the lock, they were newly cast iron. No rust had yet poisoned them, but he wrenched against the sticking place. All to no avail. He went to the wall and probed where the ring had been embedded in the stone. He scrambled through the grit until his fingers cut and bled but could not loosen its hold. Ignoring the dull throbbing in his head, he gripped one chain and levered himself against the wall with one foot, then two, and heaved with all his strength. It would not budge.
Absolon had built his prison well.
Ragnar paused his attempt and returned to the bucket of water. He sat cross-legged, scooped out a handful, and drank. It was fresh. He took another and another, washing away the acid burn in his throat. His body cried out for wine, but his head assured him water was best. He needed to remain clear of mind to plot his escape, because while his chains may appear immovable, no prison could hold a man forever.
He wiped his wet hands on his dirt-and-blood-stained shirt, then picked up the hunk of bread. Expecting it to be stale, he was surprised to find it had some give. He put it to his nose and inhaled the scent of rye. Fresh! A village must be nearby because Absolon had never shown much aptitude for cooking. But wherever it came from, Ragnar’s hunger clawed for it. He broke off chunks and stuffed them in his mouth.
Lost in the pleasure of food, no matter how simple, he forgot where he was or how he had come to be there. His throat bulged with the speed with which he ate, and it was only when he was more than halfway through the small amount he’d been given did he force himself to stop. How quickly had he turned into an animal! He was barely better than that dog.
He stopped chewing.
The dog.
Absolon had always been soft when it came to animals. He’d named this one Trogen—“faithful”—and there had been affection when he’d scratched it ears. Ragnar held up the remains of the bread. There was still enough to entice the animal. If it was eager for sick, it would find bread irresistible.
The day stretched long. Ragnar remained attentive to any sound that reached his ears and his hand opened and closed around the smooth side of the piece of pewter plate he had bent and broken free from the whole in the time that had passed. Absolon stayed away. The dog barked a few times, hours apart, but its excited yapping was distant.
If he lightened his breathing and listened carefully, he could hear the wind blowing through trees and the intermittent bang of a wooden window shutter left to flap in the breeze. No sound of running water reached his ear so perhaps the farmstead had a well. Wherever he was, he was not in a city nor a town. He was not close to a village. He was stuck in the middle of nowhere with little to draw people’s attention. The longer he listened, the more certain he was that Absolon lived alone. Or if there were other souls around, they were also captive.
The only other sound of note was the caw of ravens as they circled overheard, sometimes disturbed by the dog barking after them. He counted thirty cries across the day and struggled to not believe the old superstition that ravens were the ghosts of the murdered.
If they were, then they should cry not for him but Absolon.
Either way, they provided no comfort for Ragnar’s soul and only helped to strengthen his resolve to escape.
Night came with no sign of Absolon. Ragnar would not wait any longer. Absolon had given him thirty days and he would not waste one waiting. The small window showed only the palest change in the gloom as the stars appeared, otherwise he existed in darkness and would use it to his advantage.
He stuffed the makeshift weapon into his waistband, probed for the bucket of water, and pulled it back to his spot by the wall. He searched for the other, hurling piss against the opposite wall, and taking the bucket with him like a spider collecting flies.
He picked up the first bucket and smashed it against the wall, the crack of wood satisfyingly loud. His heartbeat ratcheted up with the action he’d taken, driven with the determination to break free. The pieces clattered to the floor at his feet. He paused to let the noise settle then picked up the second bucket and did the same. He listened. If Absolon had heard, he’d made no move towards him, but that could be changed. He felt for the biggest pieces of broken wood, hefted one in his hand, and used the window as his guide to the door.
With a deep inhale, he opened his mouth and shouted for Absolon at the top of his voice. He kept up a string of curses and jibes, calling him coward and ingrate and bastard, calling him unwanted and weak, digging through all the small failings he knew cut Absolon’s heart to ribbons and used them to flail his jailer. He stopped, gave the silence enough space to grow, then hurled a hunk of wood at the door. It hit with a thud, too light to believe it were a fist if thought about too closely, but in the moment, it might grab Absolon’s notice and he may think he’d gotten free.
He threw another piece and shouted again of how he’d broken his bonds and that if he didn’t let him out of there soon, he would kill himself then Absolon would be unable to wreak his revenge. He threw another piece and watched the window.
A glimmer of light appeared. He’d come!
He threw another piece and kept up his yelling while grabbing the remnants of bread and holding them in his hand for the dog to sniff and find.
The light stopped outside the door, a small crack allowing it to penetrate into the room an inch or two. Keys jangled. Ragnar yelled again.
“I’m going to kill you, Absolon, befo
re you kill me.”
The lock didn’t turn.
“You’re a coward, Absolon. You can’t even face me like a man!"
The key turned and the door opened a few inches for the dog to run in as an advance guard.
Ragnar lowered his hand and whispered to the dog. Soon its muzzle was at his open palm, its wet tongue slobbering over his hand. Such a good dog. Ragnar grabbed it by the scruff and brought it close to his side, bringing out the crude pewter blade and holding it to the dog’s neck. He crouched and waited, the dog’s tail wagging. Ragnar’s hold stayed firm.
The door opened and a lantern cast Absolon’s long shadow into the cell.
“What are you doing?” Absolon’s voice was a growl that raised the hair on Ragnar’s arms.
“Do not come any closer or I’ll cut its throat.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
He crushed the dog and pushed the blade harder against its windpipe. The dog whimpered. “I would. Now throw me the keys, or I’ll cut your dog’s head off then nothing in this world will love you.”
Absolon’s breath labored, his shoulders rose and fell, his chest expanded like bellows. Because of the light, his features remained in shadow but there was no mistaking his fists and the gathering rage.
“You’re wasting time, Absolon. Throw me the keys and walk away. Once I’m free, then I’ll let it go. Do you understand me? That’s an order!"
Absolon’s breathing quickened. Ragnar opened his mouth to again demand he be let loose and shout above the heavy beat of his heart in his blood, but Absolon roared and charged him.
He didn’t have time to threaten the dog again. He let go and raised the blade in defense, but no sooner had he got it up than Absolon drove him into the wall. He held him there, pinned by his upper arms, his strength nothing short of monstrous, and bellowed into his face. He slammed Ragnar against the wall, knocking the wind out of him and cracking his head on the stone.
Warlords, Witches and Wolves: A Fantasy Realms Anthology Page 17
