Black Monastery Read Online Free PDF Page B

Captain?”
    Asgrim’s skin tingled as if ants crawled over him, and in a voice that was little more than a whisper, he said, “We find the silver. Then leave.”
    The Danish warriors spread out, moving from chamber to chamber, building to building. Everywhere, they found more corpses. The monastery was a slaughterhouse. The lower levels of the monastery housed storerooms, sleeping chambers, and a large dining room. The dining room, with its long wooden tables, was filthy. Dirty dishes and plates were piled everywhere. Animal bones and other garbage covered the floor. A severed goat’s head in a congealed pool of blood sat on one of the tables. Its dead eyes seemed to follow Asgrim as he walked past, mocking him, as if the dead goat knew all the secrets of what had happened here and was amused by Asgrim’s confusion. The men muttered oaths beneath their breath, calling on the gods for protection.
    Upstairs, they found the monastery infirmary. One of the beds contained the corpse of a priest who had been tied spread-eagle to the posts. Beside the bed was a bloody collection of medical instruments that had been used to torture the man. The skin covering the corpse’s face had been cut loose, strip-by-strip, exposing the glistening muscle and sinew beneath. The corpse’s lidless eyes stared at Asgrim and his men. His mouth open, one of the younger men gaped at the savaged corpse. Asgrim turned toward the young man to say something comforting, but at that moment, the young man suddenly bent over and vomited.
    In another chamber, they found the monastery’s library. Each desk held a book; each book was chained to the desk. Asgrim casually flipped through one of the meticulously detailed tomes before letting it drop. Real men had no need for such nonsense, and although the books may have been priceless to the priests, they were useless to him. He could sell them, he supposed, but he had come for silver, not paper. At the back of the library, one of the priests had written something in dripping blood on a wall, but neither Asgrim nor his men could read the runes.
    He turned and looked about himself. “Where’s Knut? He speaks Frankish.”
    A young, thin man with pockmarked skin appeared as if by magic and stood next to Asgrim, staring at the writing on the wall.
    “Well, man. What does it say?” Asgrim demanded.
    “I don’t know,” Knut answered. “It isn’t Frankish. I don’t know what it is.”
    Asgrim frowned and walked away, muttering beneath his breath. Something very wrong had happened here. This place was cursed. He thought it best to find the silver quickly and get away.
    The upstairs church was the largest and most grandiose room in the monastery. Tiles covered its ceilings, and the walls were adorned with elaborate tapestries showing scenes of piety and religion, images that were obviously of importance to the priests but seemed pointless to Asgrim. Not a single battle scene was among them. Did these men have no heroes? Long wooden pews took up most of the chamber, and early morning sunlight poured through the narrow windows. But even there, in their most holy chamber, the stench of death was present. More angry flies droned near the wooden platform at the front of the church.
    What now?
    Behind the platform, they found the naked corpses of six young women, and this time, Asgrim himself almost vomited. He had seen his share of death. In truth, he had killed enough men to fill a mead hall, but this was too much.
    Before turning away from this carnage, Asgrim’s fingers brushed the Thor’s hammer he wore on a thong around his neck. The women must have come from the village. But why were they there? And who had done this, the priests or the soldiers?
    The priests, Asgrim was certain.
    But why would the priests do such a thing to their own kind? It was unmanly, cowardly even, worse than beasts. Perhaps that was why the soldiers had turned on them? If Asgrim had been the local garrison leader, he would have