Page 30 of Warlords, Witches & Wolves

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?”

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