The Reluctant Berserker by Alex Beecroft Read Free Book Online Page B

yawned, sleep circling him like a friendly dog, dark of pelt, calm of eye. “She said I was a changeling child, some elf’s get set in the place of a man—her own child spirited away to herd sheep for the folk of Frey. Perhaps that’s why I want folk to see that I am more than I seem to be. Because I am.”
    Anna’s chuckle turned into a shallow, rasping cough. “Or perhaps it is just your monstrous pride.”
    Leofgar laughed softly, though it hurt him sore to feel the coughs go on, shaking Anna’s ribs. He wouldn’t have known, had they not been pressed tight, for Anna made no noise at all to betray them.
    “Perhaps it is.” And it was true, for he was a monster of pride to care for his own name and reputation more than he cared for his master’s comfort. The sheer ingratitude of his arguments struck him dumb. He owed Anna everything, and the old man should have everything he desired, if only the chance might come to give it to him.
    With this decided, he allowed the hound of sleep to settle on him, breathing deep, weighing him down like a coverlet. As he slipped beneath its spell, he saw again the dark bulk that was the warrior with the worried eyes. There was one who had everything they both desired—the respect of every man, and a high and noble place in a good lord’s household. Yet it hadn’t seemed to be what he wanted.
    Lust swam sinuous through his dreams like a snake in a stream as he felt again the thrill of power and astonishment that had gone through him when the other man—the deadly creature, sword skilled, hard handed, the maker of widows—had given everything up to his control. He saw it. Bullying boor that he was, he saw in Leofgar what Leofgar knew to be there, and he had given in to it with all the gladness of a new bride.
    Perhaps it had not been the brightest of his ideas to humiliate the man in front of the entire village. The thought occurred—as these thoughts so often did—far too late. Made him groan and squeeze his eyes tight shut and hide his forehead against his master’s shoulder. Anna reached back and patted him consolingly on the hand, but it did very little to take away his regret, the feeling of a wonderful chance wantonly squandered. Monstrous pride, indeed.
     
     
    By midwinter, freedom seemed not so sweet to Leofgar. The ground glittered as he slogged uphill towards the land of the Gyrwe, the cold of it striking up like shards of broken glass through his feet. Every step jarred aching limbs and joints, bloodied his heels in his hardened shoes and rang out, bell-like, as though the whole earth beneath him had turned to metal.
    Snow heaped by the sides of the road. If it hadn’t been for the stakes hammered in by the path’s edges, he would not have known where it lay in the wide, white, featureless landscape. Ahead, a couple of trees stood out black as calligraphy against the parchment world, and in the fields they passed, the thin cattle already staggered, their hip bones sticking out like wings.
    They had stayed at Watewelle for Christmas Day, and done what they could to repay warm food and lodging with songs of holy mirth. But even then Anna had been too weak to sing, and there had been very little of gratitude in Leofgar’s heart. Two weeks later, and the feast of twelfth night saw them here, swaying with exhaustion in the middle of nowhere.
    The cold burned Leofgar from feet to knees, hands to elbows, his face gone past pain and into numbness. Still, he was the better of the two of them, for Anna no longer troubled to conceal his cough. Couldn’t have done if he’d tried—it now shook him like invisible hands, racking and tossing him. It began as a single hoarse cry and worked up until he was doubled over, gasping for breath, making inhuman whooping noises, while tears leaked from his eyes and blood ran from his lips.
    They left a red trail in that white place, bright and festive as holly berries.
    Leofgar would have wept too. Inside, the dammed tears grew