I woke abruptly, my senses dulled by the cave's suffocating darkness. For a moment, I forgot where I was. As I gathered my thoughts, I exhaled, rubbing my face. The nightmare was already slipping away, but the cold sweat clinging to my skin told me it had been a bad one.
Peering outside, I caught sight of the rising sun, its warmth slowly breaking through the night's chill. The rain still drizzled, soft and steady. My horse stood where I left her, nibbling at a patch of grass, waiting patiently.
My body ached from the night spent on hard, uncomfortable ground, but I was used to places like this. It didn't matter.
'I wonder how the kid is doing,' I thought to myself. 'Maybe I should check on her… make sure she's okay and get my reward from the old priest. But first, I need to wash. I smell like death and blood.'
Stretching out my stiff limbs, I left the cave and carefully descended the ledge. From here, I could see the monastery in the distance. The candlelight that had burned through the night was now gone. Birds perched on the branches above, the damp earth releasing a scent I had always liked—rain mixing with dirt.
Stripping off my armor and tunic, I placed my axes beside them before stepping into the pond, letting the cold water wash away the grime.
After a little while, I left the pond and donned my armor, making my way toward Mielda, mounting her. She shifted uneasily, ears flicking back as if sensing danger, but then calmed and started moving. The city of York was close now. If it weren't for the reward I'd been promised, I wouldn't have set foot there again.
Seeing the city up close once more, I hitched my horse to the same tree as before and pulled my cloak tightly around me. A crowd of people was making its way through the city gates—some carrying buckets of fish, others holding bundles of flowers. I fell in step among them, blending into their ranks as we passed through the entrance.
"Have you heard about the little girl who came here?" a man asked his wife. "Poor soul."
"Bless the man who helped her," his wife replied. "Bless him! My heart sank when Priest John carried her in. She screamed so much."
"But she's alive," the husband said. "That's something, right?"
"Yes. Yes, it is. We should pray for her tonight."
Slipping away from the crowd, I made my way toward the monastery. There, a woman in simple robes sat on a bench, reading aloud to five children who perched on a fallen log, listening intently.
The monastery's garden was modest but peaceful. A great oak tree stood at its center, its wide branches casting dappled shade over the uneven grass. Weathered stone benches were scattered about, some nearly swallowed by overgrown greenery. Vines crept up the monastery's walls, weaving between cracks in the aged stone.
As I approached, the woman glanced up from her book, eyes flicking over me before she returned to her reading. But then, mid-sentence, her voice faltered. She looked up again, this time locking eyes with me. I could swear I heard her breath catch in her throat.
"Then what happened, Sister?" a boy asked eagerly. "Tell us!"
"I—he, so—" She stumbled over her words. "That's enough for today, children. Run along now."
"Aww," a little girl whined. "We didn't get to hear the ending!"
"You'll hear it tomorrow. Don't be like that." She snapped the book shut, pressing it to her chest as she quickly stood and approached me. "Dane. We want no trouble. Please, don't hurt the children."
"Norse, not a Dane. And I want to see this Priest John, if that's all right, Sister," I said, my voice even. "I mean no harm."
"You… John?" she asked, hesitant. "Why? Are you going to hurt him?"
"No one is hurting anyone," I replied, shaking my head. "I helped a girl yesterday. I expected no reward, but John told me to return today. He said he had something for me."
She hesitated, glancing toward the monastery doors. "He is inside, heathen," she said, her voice tense. "But if you enter… leave your unhinged god outside."
"I believe in no unhinged god, Sister," I replied calmly. "Odin is a seeker of wisdom."
"Right…" she muttered, gripping her book a little tighter. "Leave your weapons outside as well. This is sacred ground."
"I won't," I said, my voice losing its usual smoothness, an edge of irritation creeping in. "You might as well ask me to cut off my own hands."
"You…" She started to argue but stopped herself, swallowing hard. "Can I trust you not to do anything reckless?"
"If I do, you're free to call the guards," I said, my expression darkening. "But if I see you alerting them for no reason… by Odin, I will hunt you down and carve a blood eagle into your back. You know what that is, don't you?"
Her face went pale. "Y-yes…" she stammered. "Okay… okay."
"Good," I said calmly. "Thank you, Sister."
With one hand resting on the hilt of my sword, I pushed the monastery door open and stepped inside.
The air was cool and heavy with the scent of old parchment, melting tallow, and faint incense. Rows of towering stone columns lined the hall, their surfaces worn, each one supporting grand arches that stretched high above. Candles flickered in iron sconces, their glow barely touching the vaulted ceiling. A long wooden table sat in the center, scratched and stained from years of use, scattered with open books, half-burnt candles, and a brass chalice.
At the far end, beneath a stained-glass window depicting a saint in flowing robes, stood a modest altar draped in a deep red cloth. The silence inside was profound, broken only by the occasional crackling of candlelight and the soft whisper of wind slipping through the gaps in the stone.
John was slumped against the wall, sitting on the cold stone floor, his head tilted back, mouth slightly open as he snored. I walked toward him, cleared my throat, and waited for him to wake.
Nothing.
I exhaled, crouched beside him, and shook his shoulder lightly. "Hmm." I sniffed the air and scowled. "Ale. Are you drunk, priest? Inside sacred ground?"
"Huua!" John jolted awake with a start and, before I could react, swung a wild fist into my face.
"Get out!"
Pain exploded across my forehead as I hit the ground. Shaking my head, I let out a slow breath and rubbed my forehead where his fist had landed. Meanwhile, the priest blinked blearily, his mind catching up with his actions. His lips curled in regret.
"Ah… sorry, Dane."
"Well," I muttered, nodding. "You've got a good punch for a priest, friend. And it's Norse, not Dane."
"Right, right," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "You're not gonna kill me, are you? That'd be a pathetic way to go."
"No," I replied flatly. "I'm here for my reward. You told me to come today."
"Oh… right, right, right."
I wrinkled my nose. "You smell like an old ale-drenched… fart."
John waved a hand dismissively. "Being a man of God comes with a lot of responsibilities. Sometimes, you gotta take your head off for a while—anyway." He dug into his pocket, pulling out a small pouch, and tossed it to me. "Fourteen silver coins. Spend them well."
I caught the pouch midair, feeling its weight before securing it to my belt. As I did, John braced a hand against the wall, tilted forward, and promptly emptied his stomach onto the stone floor.
I stepped back immediately, not wanting to catch any of that.
When he was finally done, he let out a long burp, closed his eyes, and took deep, shaky breaths. I glanced around and spotted a lone wooden chair in the corner—dark, sturdy, and slightly uneven. I dragged it over and motioned for him to sit.
John slumped onto it with a groan. "You're different," he muttered after a moment. "Not like Ragnar's men."
"I am like them," I replied. "If I were raiding this monastery, I'd be drowning you in your own puke, priest."
"That's harsh," he grunted. "But I understand."
"You understand?"
He let out a dry chuckle and tilted his head back. "Yeah. I fucking do."
"Good." I crossed my arms. "What happened to the girl, by the way?"
"She lives," John said, rolling his shoulder with a wince. "Did you have any idea who she was when you helped her?"
"No," I replied. "Why? Who was she?"
Before he could answer, the monastery doors groaned open, and the same woman who had been reading to the children rushed inside. Her face was pale, as if she had seen an undead. She moved quickly toward us, hands clasped in front of her. As she reached us, she glanced down at the mess John had left on the floor, hesitated for a moment, then shook her head and turned her attention back to the priest.
"Ernest's men!" she said, breathless. "They're attacking a village nearby! The guards there need help!"
"Them again!" John spat, shaking his head. "Filthy wretches!"
"Who are these men?" I asked. "The same group who went after the girl?"
"Yes," John muttered, pushing himself to his feet. "I know you like silver, Norse. Would you hear my offer?"
"Maybe. What are you offering, priest?"
"Help me deal with those fucking—" He stopped mid-sentence, shutting his eyes and pressing two fingers to his forehead before drawing them down to his chest in the sign of the cross. "Forgive me, O Lord, for I have sinned within sacred ground." He exhaled sharply. "Help me put an end to those—idiots, and I'll see you rewarded handsomely."
"Then let's ride," I said. "Where's the village?"
"Not far," he answered, striding toward the door. "Normally, it would be quiet, but there's a small festival being held. Bards, poets, travelers—we're accommodating them. Ernest's men must've caught wind of it."
We left the monastery and moved toward the city gates. John headed straight for the stables, reclaiming his horse from the stablemaster and adjusting the dagger at his belt.
"You go ahead," I said. "My horse is outside the city. I'll catch up."
"Fine. We ride northeast."