Page 62 of Warlords, Witches & Wolves

“I’ve come to take my revenge.”

Lundgren snorted, leaned over his desk, and waved him away with his hand. “You’re lucky we let you out of here alive after your ineptitude, and you dare show your face here? The shame should have kept you away longer than a year. Better men would have drunk themselves to death. Get out.” The general picked up his quill.

Dismissed and disregarded, Ragnar’s blood boiled and incinerated the calm demeanor he had wanted to project. He reached across the table, grabbed Lundgren by his shirt front, and hurled him across the room. The general’s shout of alarm broke short as he slammed into the wall and crumpled to the floor.

Ragnar stalked over to the wincing, grunting figure. Lundgren tried to right himself and regain his composure, but he was flustered. The general raised his arm to protect himself, but Ragnar snared it in his grip and twisted sharply until the bone snapped. The general cried out and fear widened his eyes and mouth.

“What is this?” he stammered.

Ragnar crouched, pressed his hand against the general’s chest like an immovable weight crushing him against the wall. He kept up a slow, growing pressure, feeling his sternum and ribs creak as agony twisted his face. “I had to live in the forest for a year. I had to become a bandit, an outlaw, because of what you did, because you thought I was useless.”

“You were responsible for the death of five hundred men and your recklessness would have killed a thousand more.”

“That number pales compared to the number you have sent to their slaughter. You destroyed my life, and I will repay you in kind.”

“I only did what was right. If you want someone to blame, blame your father.”

“I will.”

Ragnar’s eyes flared, he grabbed Lundgren by the throat. The symbol flashed in Ragnar’s mind and shot out to do its awful work. The general’s soul detached—he could feel the separation, like a click, like a lock unlocking—then it was his. He drew it in, drew it in slow, as slow as he could, to keep Lundgren alive as long as possible.

All the while the general kept his gaze fixed on Ragnar’s. He would know to his last breath Ragnar’s might. He relished the dread that knowledge invoked and let the general’s life wash through him. He caught glimpses of himself, but he was too much in haste and once sighted they were already gone. He searched for more but there were none until his final moments, tarred with terror at what thisthinghad done.

Life left the general’s eyes and he slumped like a sack of barley. The energy from the soul barreled through him, rolling and tumbling, and Ragnar stood, breathed deep of his vanquished foe’s essence. He flexed his hands and fingers and stretched. Lightning struck his heart, a feeling of being alive, of being vital and connected.

He had been right to choose the general for his first kill. He had got the vengeance he had wanted and ignored Lundgren’s lies. He had not been responsible for those deaths. He had done the right thing and would have brought greater glory for Sweden and the King. But the small-minded fool hadn’t seen that, and he’d paid for his mistakes with his life. He cracked his knuckles and went in search of the other men who’d been party to his betrayal.

By the time he was finished, six souls swam through his blood and he swayed like a drunkard. An alarm was raised as he left the barracks dressed in new civilian clothes and a heft ofriksdalerin his pocket. He longed to take a regimental sword with him, strip the badges from the dead’s jackets and take them as trophies, but what did he need with their mortal decorations? He would be praised with sagas. Once he was done with his revenge. Then it could all start afresh.

He turned for the road to Jönköping and his ancestral home. It took him the greater part of the night to reach the outskirts of the city, and he waited for it to stir. He sauntered in, found a room where he could wash and a tailor that could deck him in fine clothes for when he presented himself to his father. He pressed the tailor to have it finished for the next morning, paid him handsomely for it with stolen coin, and spent the hours circling the castle where his father and brother lived. He poured his ire into it, hoping it would catch fire with the strength of his hate alone.

Blame your father, the general had said.

Everything that had gone wrong could be traced back to that odious serpent. His elder brother had benefited from his accident of birth, but there had been more than enough wealth to go around. Everything he had got he had earned for himself, a noble name not counting for as much as it should, and still he was not worthy enough to be treated as an equal son. And after the failed battle he’d been left homeless, without title and without income.

Not that it mattered now.

He forced himself to believe that it didn’t matter now.

He could have anything and everything he wanted. But first, he’d kill his father then his brother, and he’d take their place as lord and master. It felt right. It felt divine.

Then maybe there’d be a place for Absolon.

He hissed at the unwelcome thought. Absolon didn’t belong in a castle. He would not like it.

Neither did Ragnar, but he would endure it for as long as he needed. He would use it as a base from which to conquer lands and kingdoms. Absolon didn’t belong in all that.

It was better that Absolon wasn’t there.

Better for Absolon.

He returned to the tailor in a foul mood made worse by a gloomy day, but the fine clothes improved it. The tailor spouted excuses for any defects and begged to be allowed more time to put them to rights, but Ragnar cut him off. He would return once he had everything he wished for and paid the tailor double his fee, which earned him effusive thanks. Ragnar left in disgust, despite the beautiful cut to the clothes that made him look every bit the noble.

He strutted down the street towards the castle, walking as if he owned the earth beneath his feet and the sky above his head. He stopped at the gate and at soldiers he didn’t recognize. At the door he was permitted into the entry hall by a butler he didn’t know, yet when asked who was being presented, the butler’s eyebrows flicked up at his name.

“I wish to speak to my father.”

The butler begged him wait and scurried off.

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