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Chapter 8

Absolon slept soundly, cuddled against Ragnar, a great lump of man that had grown too heavy for him to handle. The afternoon and evening had passed with their discussions, of the limits that Absolon had found to their power, the pain that touching gold brought, the ability to alter the age of one’s appearance, and of testing the symbols that flashed for attention inside their minds. They were instinctive yet they still needed coaxing and studying for him to feel confident in them.

There was the one he already knew well—the harvest symbol—and there was the one for making another Darisami, as well as one for the splitting of a soul to allow communication between two Darisami. Beyond those three he couldn’t be certain.

Still, those three were enough to define the rest of eternity. He drew them over and over in his mind like a litany, a silent act of devotion to whatever had molded him into this wondrous form. He wondered if there were more symbols and why they had not revealed themselves fully formed in his mind. But this curiosity was not enough to overwhelm the feeling that he had to leave.

He could not have slept even if he’d wanted to. Absolon’s face and body had lost the tension they’d held throughout his captivity and freedom. He was again the eager, doe-eyed boy who had first caught Ragnar’s eye and the attention of his cock and heart. Absolon touched him more often, freed from any fear of reprisal from the outside world or from Ragnar. There were no proprieties to observe, no shame to keep them hidden, except from the moon, but so far from civilization were they that even that was not a real concern.

Ragnar’s skin burned wherever Absolon touched him, a fire fed with unlimited fuel, and he touched the berserker more as well, a stroke to his inner thigh, a hand on the back of his neck, absent-mindedly caressing and laughing and talking and loving—

He swung out of bed and put his feet on the floor. Absolon stirred but rolled over and went back to sleep. Ragnar couldn’t stay one day more because one day Absolon would see that he was not worthy of all that his heart had to give. Absolon would know, if he didn’t already, what Ragnar had always wanted to deny: that he was useless. He had to prove that it was not so, and he couldn’t do that by staying here.

An owl hooted in the still night, catching Ragnar’s attention. A call of the wise. He knew the choice he had to take, and once taken it drove him from the hovel with its small room and shrinking walls and as far as he could get before Absolon woke and his resolve broke.

He kept to the shade of the forests in case the moon revealed his presence and gave rise to rumors of an angel in their midst. He pushed his legs to run faster, wondering if Absolon was looking for him and pleading for him to come back.

A village appeared before him, one of reasonable size, but one he didn’t know from his limited experience. Was this the village Absolon had come to for his food and clothes? Did they know him there? Was he that isolated, elusive man living alone on that farm? Was he a source of gossip among the women? An object of praise or ridicule among the men? He couldn’t think of that or else he’d want to kill everyone in the village.

The need to feed—a beast to rival the dragon Níðhöggr—knew there were souls within reach and wanted to hunt. Is that why Absolon kept himself distant? Because it was so hard to abstain? Well, he would learn to master his hunger and rule over thousands. Millions! But he would not destroy this village in case it was Absolon’s field to reap.

Besides, what were these people to Ragnar? They were as nothing. No, his quarry lay much farther afield. Careful to avoid the light of the moon, he stepped out enough from the line of trees to scan the sky and find Polstjärnan. His old garrison and the generals that oversaw them were stationed north; he would head there. He set his course and ran through the night, but the further he got from Absolon, the more his mind stayed back in that farmstead.

When dawn broke, Absolon would know he had gone. Ragnar slapped his thoughts away from dwelling on Absolon’s misery. It was necessary. What he was doing had to be done or else there’d be no hope for his future. He could not have stayed with Absolon while this ate away at him.

He ran.

When the night passed, he checked his course at the first village he encountered. The bakers were already at their work and the smell of rye rumbled in his stomach, but he desired only the men’s souls, not their wares.

He kept his distance, the symbol flaring in front of his mind when he got too close. He must have looked a bedraggled and ravenous wolf at that moment. The bakers stepped back. One offered him a loaf fresh from the oven, mistaking him for some beggar desperate for food. Ragnar thanked him for his kindness but refused and kept back. He asked for directions and, as soon as he had confirmation he was on the right track, he left.

He hadn’t killed anyone, but he wanted to. He could have. Could have done it easily and no one would have stopped him, but he wanted his hunger sharp when he met those who had done him wrong and made him feel lesser. He wanted their souls to be the first to mark his new ascendance.

He forced himself to forget Åke’s soul.

He reached the city by the next day’s end and when the garrison rose before him, he salivated. He skirted around its high walls to the rear and, when no one was watching, scaled it like a lizard. He traversed the parapet and dropped onto the ground on the other side without detection.

The smell of gunpowder and male sweat wafted into his nose and stirred his longing for that life of war. He had found his place in the military. He walked through the barracks as he had then, confident and assured, despite his shabby dress and lack of uniform. He had risen through the ranks with speed and surety. They had hailed him a hero after one successful battle after another, and his strategies and tactics had been inspired. Even if his father could not fail to give him grudging respect, even if he never said it aloud. They had to take notice of him then, when he brought such glory for Sweden.

All until the battle when he’d lost five hundred men. It had been a gamble, a bold move to rout the enemy, but the men had lacked discipline, and the generals and other officers had quailed and cost them the element of surprise. And he had paid the price for their foolishness.

Ordinarily officers would not suffer such shame—lives were expendable. But it was a step too far for the generals who had been afraid of Ragnar’s popularity. They had seen an opportunity and acted, and they had got his father to go along with them. Not that the old miser would have needed much coaxing. His indifference had been locked in decades ago.

General Lundgren had been the one to instigate it, and it was outside his office that Ragnar found himself. His secretary was out, and he marched up to the door bearing the general’s name. It was the same as when he’d left but the feeling of looking at it was different. Then he’d been ordered to appear, flanked by guards, but his confidence had been such that he believed he would have nothing to answer for. But now, he knew there was nothing the general could do to stop him.

He knocked and a gruff voice commanded him to enter.

The white-haired general with his thick moustache sat hunched over his desk, quill scrawling rapidly across parchment. Orders for the field, or merely missives to the King, that desk had been where he’d written to his father to ask approval to dismiss. The two old men knew each other, had been friends once, and shared a mutual distaste for Ragnar over what he would have liked to believe was their fear of him but was more likely their ridicule.

Ragnar shut the door and approached the desk. The light in the room was starting to fade despite the candles.

The general took in the shabby clothes covering his body, curled his lip and smiled when he recognized Ragnar. He put down his quill and leaned back, folding his hands over his stomach.

“I thought you were dead. You certainly look as such. How did you get in here?”

“No defenses can keep me out.”

“Well, I suppose whores manage to find their way in here all the time. You’d be no different.” The general smirked, superiority oozed out of him. “What do you want?”