He followed her and saw her father, Karl, approaching with Styr. “There you are,” the older man said. “Before you are wedded, I thought you and your betrothed should spend one last day together. I’ve made arrangements for the both of you.” The shielded glare he sent toward Ragnar spoke volumes.
Styr, on the other hand, greeted him warmly. “Tonight, our kinsmen are having a celebration to mark the last day I am unwed. You’ll come, won’t you?”
Ragnar nodded. The idea of getting drunk to the point of oblivion was a welcome one.
“Go on, then,” Karl said. “I want to speak with Ragnar a moment about the preparations.”
The older man waited until they were out of earshot and he sent Ragnar a dark look. “Stay away from my daughter. Or I’ll see to it that you’re whipped within an inch of your life.”
“You can do nothing to me.” Ragnar drew himself up to his full height, resting his hand upon his sword hilt. If Karl so much as dared to threaten him, he wouldn’t hesitate to defend himself.
A slow smile curved across the man’s face. “Whose word will they believe? I am a respected leader and a friend to Styr’s father. The jarl won’t allow anyone to interfere with this marriage. I could claim that you’ve stolen silver from me. Orperhaps you’ve dishonored another of my daughters. My words hold more power than you’ll ever have.” Karl spat upon the ground. “That’s as much as your life is worth, Ragnar Olafsson. You’ll never come near any of my daughters.”
A black rage swirled inside of Ragnar, and he longed to crack his fist across the man’s jaw for the insult.
But it was her father. He couldn’t lay a hand on the man or risk Elena’s hatred. His hands were clenched at his sides, and he struggled to contain his fury. The need to release the violence was rising hotter, and once the man was gone, he ran along the edge of the lake. He drove his pace harder, running past the quadrants of houses until he reached his father’s house on the farthest side.
But even the exertion did nothing to diminish the vicious hatred. He was sick to death of being treated like an outcast. He’d trained hard, learning to wield every weapon until he’d mastered them.
He saw an ax lying near the woodpile and reached for it. As he split the wood chunks, the rhythmic motion of the work did nothing to calm the storm brewing inside him.
Not good enough,the wood sang as the metal bit through the log. He hacked at the pine, letting the rage pour through him. Sweat dripped from his brow and his muscles strained as he worked.
The door to their house opened and he saw his father stagger outside, a wooden cup in his hand.
“I saw you go off with Elena,” came his father’s voice from behind him. “But she’s promised to Styr. She would never leave him for a man like you.”
Ragnar let the ax sink into the wood before he spun to face Olaf. “We’re only friends.”
“Are you?” Olaf met his gaze with hardened eyes of his own. “Or did you want to steal her away because you think you’re in love with her?”
Ragnar could smell the mead upon his father’s breath. But this time, when the man’s fist came toward his jaw, he blocked the blow with his forearm and retaliated with a fist to his father’s head.
Olaf exploded with anger, but Ragnar welcomed the fight. For so many years, he’d been too young to defend himself. Too weak to shield himself from the blows that had cracked his ribs and broken his nose.
This time, he returned blow for blow, releasing the years of anger. Fighting back for the sake of the young boy who had suffered in silence, knowing there was no one who cared to stop the man.
His father’s blood was upon his hands, but the bleakness of his past drowned out all else. He heard nothing, saw nothing except the man who had taunted him. There was only the mindless blur of exchanging blows.
“Ragnar!” Elena was hurrying toward him, but even she could not stop him from the destruction that had been unleashed.
He didn’t care what happened to him anymore. His own father hated him, and now Ragnar would have his own vengeance. His fist crunched against bone and he was dimly aware that his father was on the ground, unmoving.
Styr dragged him back, and Ragnar fought to free himself. “Don’t,” his friend warned. “He’s nearly dead as it is.”
Dead. The word sank into him like talons. The haze of anger lifted and he saw Elena staring at him as if he were a monster. His father’s face was covered in blood and Ragnar stared at his own hands in disbelief.
By the gods, what had come over him? He hardly knew himself, and he took a step back when Elena came near.
“Are you all right?” she whispered.
“Stay back.” He didn’t trust himself. Never before had such an uncontrollable rage come over him. His hands were shaking, and he realized an undeniable truth. He’d become just the man his father had been.
Violent. Filled with unstoppable rage.
“Send for a healer,” Styr ordered Elena, and she hurried off. Ragnar couldn’t move, and when his friend guided him away, he barely heard the man’s words. “I’ll swear to any witness that he raised a hand to you first. He deserves this after the way you were beaten all your life.”
But Ragnar could only shake his head. He had fought out of rage and frustration. This was his fault, and he dreaded the thought of looking into the jarl’s eyes, admitting his deed.
