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The Heart and Soul of Ragnar the Red

Immortals of the Apocalypse: An Origins Novella by Daniel De Lorne

Chapter 1

Sweden, 1686

Athousand men could not have done what Ragnar and twenty on horseback had achieved. Loaded down with tax collections liberated from the King’s soldiers, they plunged into the protection of the forest. A late autumn wind blew at their backs, aiding their flight and bringing warning of any pursuit. Its chill cut through the back of Ragnar’s coat.

A thousand men…

He had only to keep a handful of that number happy through the long nights of the approaching winter, and with the day’s plunder surely none would turn deserter. One man was no longer his concern; a musket shot ending his life. Ragnar had taken his vengeance and routed the soldiers, lain waste to their lives for killing that one underling, and only stopped when his band demanded they return to camp. He had not appreciated their censure in the middle of his battle haze, but he had seen their reason and ordered a withdrawal. They sought safety now the deed was done.

While the forest called to his men, a warm and comfortable bed in a fine castle beckoned from his memories. He whipped his horse hard. Åke would admonish him for his rough treatment of the beast, and in turn he would show Åke how rough he could be. Much as the young man liked it.

The day’s light faded early, helping to cover their flight. The temperature dropped once enveloped in the shadows of the darkening forest, and their speed slowed so as not to endanger the horses more than necessary. One hoof placed wrong and they’d lose the animal. With what they’d ransacked, they could afford another, but he never liked to lose a good horse if he could help it.

His men held their tongues, fearful of drawing attention to their escape. It wasn’t the eye of the law they warded against but the malevolent gaze of the supernatural. Despite the months they’d traversed Halland’s forests, learning its sounds, its ways and defenses, many of the men still crossed themselves when crossing its boundaries. They warded against the Skogsrå, the seductive female spirit with the fox’s tail who drew men into the shadows with her song and stole their souls.

Ragnar put no stock in their superstitions. They were for peasants. The Skogsrå was nothing more than a creation to explain the loss of foolish men who’d wandered off and lost their way forever. But he relied on his men and was forced to indulge their delusions until the day when he had stolen enough, killed enough, and won enough to become the hero he needed to be. Because heroes were denied nothing. The nobility would welcome his return, hail him their champion, and the revenge he’d finally visit upon those who had wronged him, his father chief among them, would be his. Then this unpleasant low point would be relegated to myth and the ghosts of a forest far from his Småland home.

They reached their camp in the last of the natural light, guided by the flickering campfire he ordered kept small. Åke was waiting for him as he halted. He threw the blond and beguiling young man his reins.

“The raid was a success?”

“Was there any doubt?” He dismounted and walked away from the glint in Åke’s eye. “Tend the horses.” As if Åke needed to be told.

“As my lord wishes.”

Åke’s breathy subservience poked the embers in Ragnar’s blood, but they had to be smothered. Åke could not become another Absolon, not that he had anywhere near Absolon’s skills.

Not with his horses. Not with his cock. Not with his heart.

But Absolon had been a warning and one he was doing his best to heed. His men would only accommodate so much frivolity from him, and with winter fast approaching and their chances to raid curtailed, desertion would be the least of his worries. Two fewer men with whom to share the spoils made an attractive reason to murder—even if that meant killing Ragnar the Red.

The ten men who’d remained at camp saluted him as they hurried to unload the loot from their fellows. He and another man would take it the next day to a secure stronghold deep in the forest, their one hope of keeping it safe until required. It was apportioned equally among them; even he took the same cut though he deserved more. He may be their leader, but his act of goodwill and equality ensured only limited loyalty. Three men knew of the stronghold’s location—him among them—so he had relative surety that its contents would not vanish.

Though perhaps he could use the Skogsrå to his advantage and expedite his escape out of this outlaw’s existence.

The dampness in the air forced Ragnar to huddle inside his coat, the thrill of the ride and the kill having abated. He sought the closeness of the fire but remained standing to surveil the men. Once the horses were tended and the loot deposited, they gathered around the fire. Wine passed hands and Ragnar sensed a tension: the taut frisson between a successful raid and the loss of a brother.

Ragnar raised his cup. “To Jöns. A good man who gave his life so that we may live. Skål!"

“Skål!" The men charged their cups and drank deep. They refilled their vessels and drank again. Murmured conversation limped in and Jöns’ demise was soon swept into tales of the raid. Their voices grew louder, a few laughed raucously, and some cheered for Ragnar. Others failed to meet his eye, but he caught the hard twist to their mouths and the accusing glances that passed between them. A loss was still a loss, even for one such as he.

“Ragnar the Red” they called him, though not purely on account of his dark auburn hair and beard. He had fashioned himself into a legend with a firm hand, a generous spirit to his followers, and tactics that inspired fear in great men. But he needed more than the thirty men beneath his command to recognize him for it. It should not be so difficult.

Their Swedish heritage had plenty of Viking heroes to draw from, even if much time had passed since Erik the Red and Ragnar Loðbrók had plundered lands and claimed them for their people’s glory. He could muscle his way into those conquerors’ fellowship—even if his father and brother never invited him into theirs.

Men bade him sing and he obliged. Keeping his rich voice low to soften their noise, he transfixed them with a ballad of Svipdagr.

He would have gladly counted himself among the wily champion’s hallowed company. One day he would. After all, had he not risen against the odds as second son to a noble family and become a great military strategist?

Never mind that his path had deviated thanks to a brilliant—yet failed—rout during a battle against the Russians. Five hundred men slaughtered, his reputation in tatters, and his rank and honors stripped. Those who’d long resented him had taken the opportunity to make his fall complete. His father, a count of ancient lineage, removed his protection once and for all and would never speak his son’s name again. In return, Ragnar would not speak his or his line’s until he took his place among Sweden’s heroes.

Then his father would know how wrong he had been.

His voice took on a hard edge as Svipdagr’s quest to speak with the shade of his dead mother grew darker. Not a man moved as he lost himself in the tale that twisted with his own.