Page 49 of Warlords, Witches & Wolves

Chapter 5

Absolon furnished him with an extra blanket and a thick mound of straw, but Ragnar had to remain content with staying naked for the night apart from his boots. Once the sun started to descend, Absolon refused to go into the nearest village for fear of exposing himself to moonlight. Ragnar longed to see that, to have some confirmation of the supernatural and of Absolon’s power beyond what he had already experienced.

Absolon brought him food but otherwise forbade him from coming into the farmhouse, small as it was. He said if Ragnar disagreed, he was welcome to leave, but wolves had been known in the area and Absolon would not supply him with weapons.

Ragnar stayed.

Of course he stayed.

He settled into the cell, left the door ajar, and wedged himself in the corner opposite from where he used to be bound. The chains stayed where they’d been dropped, a reminder of his bondage, of his weakness, of Absolon’s power.

Power that would be his.

If it existed.

Absolon had told a good story and there were plenty who would have believed him; most of the dead men in his band for a start. Skogsrå meet Absolon; Absolon meet Skogsrå. A match made in heaven. Or Hell. Or perhaps nowhere. Men had gone mad before and Absolon had ever been treated badly. Perhaps he’d snapped and lost himself in fanciful stories to ease his pain.

Ragnar massaged the center of his chest to smother the dull ache that had appeared during Absolon’s tale and not abated. At the least Absolon’s strength was something he could turn to his own design. There was no band of bastards left for him to draw upon. Absolon had done him a service in clearing them out. He didn’t have to feed them through the winter when the chances of raiding froze. He could stay at the farm through the coldest part of the year, encourage Absolon to join him, and they’d go off again, build up another group of cutthroats. Absolon could be his secret weapon.

And if Absolon were telling the truth—that he was some powerful mystical being who stole men’s souls with barely a touch—then Ragnar would take that power for his own.

He chuckled to himself, at Absolon’s delusions as well as his own gullibility. A soul-eater? Absolon’s mind had shattered along with his heart.

And isn’t that my fault too?

He tutted aloud, cursed his conscience back into silence, and sang to ensure it didn’t speak again. He still needed Absolon to trust him. He sang Absolon’s favorites, starting with the songs of battles won, rousing renditions to stir him from his seat, to inspire him with feelings of camaraderie, of companionship, of joined purpose, and remind him of the good fights when they’d been together.

Next he turned to the bawdy songs, changing them to be not about a fine young lass or a saucy wench, but to a comely lad or a cheeky boy, before dipping into the songs of love and hope.

The glow of Absolon’s lantern lightened the doorway.

He would have turned to the slow songs of heartbreak, but he couldn’t do it, so eager was he to have Absolon step inside. If he could draw him in with song alone, he could tame the beast and bend him to his will. He leaned against the cell wall, arranged the blankets as seductively as he could, but in the gloom, what did it matter? Absolon’s hands would find everything he needed as he always had before.

But Absolon didn’t enter. The lantern’s glow was sure enough, casting light into the doorway, but he stayed beyond it.

Very well. If Absolon wouldn’t come to him, then he would go to Absolon. He could show some deference, some willingness to submit. After all, he enjoyed a good fuck as much as Absolon.

And that last fuck…

Ragnar covered himself and started singing Absolon’s new favorite.He stood and draped the blanket over his shoulders, the rest of him as bare as he could endure. He steadied, paused to build up to the chorus, walked out from his corner, around the door and—

Fear gripped his heart and terror congealed in his blood.

“Now you know it’s real.”

Ragnar blinked. Absolon glowed, not from the light of a lantern, not from the light of a fire, but out of himself as the moon beamed from above. His body radiated light, shining like an angel. But the look on his face reflected only sadness.

He looked so forlorn, so sorrowful, so pathetic, yet all Ragnar could do was freeze and think over and over that this couldn’t be real, that Absolon couldn’t have told him the truth, because if it were true, then Absolon was as deadly as he said he was.

“I’ll bring you some clothes in the morning and you can leave soon after. I understand.” Absolon walked away. The light stayed with him becausehe was the light.

Ragnar’s mind fought against this impossibility, yet it was exactly as Absolon had described. And if he didn’t act fast, he’d lose any chance of having this for himself.

“Absolon, wait.” He hurried after him. He hesitated to touch him, wondering if his hand would burn or he’d be turned to a pillar of salt, but he swallowed and pressed on. He held Absolon’s arm, grateful that he could stop his hand from shaking and that Absolon could not see all his fear. He held the blanket tighter in case he trembled. “Why are you leaving?”

He scoffed. “I saw the way you looked at me. You’re frightened of me, like everyone else.”

“I’m not like everyone else, Sol. It’s me. Ragnar the Red, remember? You don’t scare me.”

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