“What sort of research?”
“I’m afraid I can’t divulge that.”
“You expect me to sell you two thousand square kilometers of land in my country without knowing what you intend to do with it?”
“With respect, sir, that is part of the reason I’m willing to pay nearly three times the market value of the land.”
“There are many other remote areas. Alaska is twenty times the size of Iceland. Why not go there?”
“Alaska doesn’t meet my needs for reasons I’d rather not go into.”
“These needs of yours… I don’t suppose they’re related to the discovery of certain artifacts in this region of our country?”
For a moment, Astrid was too unsettled to speak. Magnason sat back and grinned. “You didn’t think I was ignorant of that, did you? I’m the Prime Minister. It’s my business to know such things.” He reached beside his own chair to unlatch his briefcase. He pulled a folder from it and then closed the briefcase. He set the folder on the table and opened it to reveal a handful of newspaper clippings. The headline of the top one read American hiker finnur ‘fornu rými hjálm.’ Below it was a picture of a smiling man holding the round object in front of his chest. Magnason said, “It says ‘American hiker finds ancient space helmet,’ in case your Icelandic is rusty.”
Astrid nodded absently. She picked up the clippings and briefly perused each of them. Half were from the leading Reykjavik newspaper; the others were printouts from various fringe websites, some in Icelandic and some in English. She had seen them all before. Most were simply rehashing of the “space helmet” story, along with some additional embellishment and speculation. A few of the stories mentioned an Icelandic farmer who had claimed to have found a stainless-steel valve stem buried under several layers of volcanic ash. The accounts were all second- or third-hand, though: neither the farmer nor the artifact could be located. There were rumors of several other such discoveries, but no hard proof. The ‘ancient Icelandic astronauts’ meme was confined to the most extreme tinfoil-hat regions of the Internet. Even so, it had been foolish to assume that David Magnuson was unaware of the stories. Time for Plan B.
“I suppose there’s no point in denying it, then,” Astrid said. “Yes, the foundation’s project is archaeological in nature.”
“You’re saying the stories are true?”
“Which stories, exactly?”
“The ones that say ancient astronauts visited Iceland a thousand years ago.”
“We don’t know exactly what happened here,” Astrid said. “That’s the reason for our research.”
“But you’re expecting to find more artifacts as the ice continues to melt. The death of the glaciers is a boon to you.” He was unable to keep the edge out of his voice.
“Ice melts,” Astrid said with a shrug.
“Good luck for you, bad luck for us. Just like Malaysia, eh?”
“That glacier has been melting since 1890. It’s not like you were blindsided by it.” She had told herself to avoid getting into a political argument with the Prime Minister, but something about the way these people romanticized the glaciers irritated her.
“The rate at which the glaciers are receding has accelerated rapidly in the last thirty years.”
“When the Vikings first came to Iceland in the tenth century,” Astrid replied, “the glaciers were much smaller than they are today. The glaciers began to grow during the Little Ice Age, which began about four hundred years later, reached their peak size in the late nineteenth century, and have been shrinking ever since. Is human activity accelerating the melting of the glaciers? Probably. But the retreat of the glaciers is neither unprecedented nor unexpected. Environmentalists like to accuse advocates of modern technology of being short-sighted, but what is truly short-sighted is assuming that the climate has always been as it is now. In fact, if it weren’t for the period of unusually warm weather lasting from the tenth century to the thirteenth, Iceland probably would never have been settled at all, so there would be no one here to complain about the loss of your precious glaciers.”
Magnason regarded her impassively for a moment and then broke into a smile. “It does make one wonder what this place was like a thousand years ago,” he said. The bartender had brought his coffee, and he took a sip. “The historical records of that period are scant. The ruins of an entire civilization could be under that ice.”
“That,” said Astrid, returning his smile, “is doubtful.” She was relieved that Magnason hadn’t taken her rant personally. Undoubtedly he knew everything she’d told him anyway; his concern about the loss of the glaciers was not quasi-religious as it was for some, but simply a pragmatic concern: without its famed glaciers, Iceland would lose some of its appeal for tourists.
“I don’t suppose you’ll make the results of your research available publicly,” Magnason said.
“Ultimately, our foundation’s research will benefit all of humankind. However, I can make no guarantees in the short-term.”
“In other words, you’re keeping anything you find secret.”
“Yes. Moreover—”
“You want the Icelandic government’s help in keeping it secret.”
“You’re very astute, Prime Minister. An assurance of your government’s cooperation is the other reason for the price I’m offering.”
“You’re essentially asking us to cede sovereignty over a large chunk of our country.”
“Not at all. We ask only for the property rights granted to every landowner in Iceland, along with the sort of cooperation you offer to a large corporation doing business within your borders. A certain aluminum mining concern, for example.” The government’s concessions to Alumnico were something of an open secret, but Magnason stiffened at her remark. “Relax,” Astrid said, having found her confidence at last. “I don’t know anything that hasn’t already been hinted at by the international press, and blackmail isn’t my style. I’m only saying that I’m not suggesting anything wildly improper or particularly unusual.”
“Other than the size of the purchase. Much of the land in that area is within a national park, you realize.”
“We don’t intend to interfere with the normal operations of the park, except in the eventuality that another artifact is found. Such an occurrence may necessitate restricting access to the immediate area of the discovery for a time. And of course any artifacts will be property of the foundation.”
“Of course. The price you’re offering, again, is…?”
“Two point four billion U.S. dollars. To be paid via a direct transfer of various non-cash holdings to the national treasury.”
“Your ‘foundation’ is short on cash?”
“Hardly. This arrangement is intended to avoid scrutiny by the media and others who might ask uncomfortable questions about the rapid turnaround in Iceland’s financial picture.”
“Uncomfortable for you or for me?”
“Both. My attorneys suggest that you implement a sweeping financial reform plan, which will incidentally uncover the existence of certain investments that had been inadvertently left off the treasury’s balance sheet. The ‘rediscovered’ assets will provide a respectable annual return of $200 million, essentially cutting the country’s budget deficit by ten percent, and ensuring your reelection as Prime Minister.”
“Interesting. And if someone looks into the ownership of that land?”
“Officially, it will remain the property of the Icelandic government. But there will be an off-the-books understanding regarding the foundation’s ownership.”
“Hmmm. I’d suggest a long-term lease. Easier to keep quiet. Say one hundred years?”
“Better make it two hundred.”
“Two hundred years! How long do you expect this ‘research’ to take?”
Astrid smiled. “I’m confident two hundred years will cover it.”
“I suppose that could be done. Two hundred million dollars per year is a hell of an enticement.”
“I feel th
at I must specify that although this deal is to remain secret, the management of the investments must be entirely above-board. I will insist on a yearly internal audit.”
Magnason grinned again. “You mean to tell me I won’t be able to use the two point four billion to buy myself a yacht? Don’t worry, I may be an ornery old bastard, but I’m scrupulous to a fault. That money will be used solely to pay down the country’s debt. The only benefit I’ll see, as you mention, is a boost in my chances of retaining my post as Prime Minister.”
“Good. Extravagant purchases on your part or on the part of any other government officials would prompt questions, and if someone pulls on that thread, the whole thing will unravel. I’m confident this deal is the best thing for both your country and for our foundation, but others may not see it that way.”
“Understood. Well, I should be getting back to the city. It’s been a pleasure speaking with you, Ms. van de Lucht. I’ll have my finance people get in touch with you. By the way, this foundation of yours… does it have a name, or is that top secret as well?”
“The name isn’t a secret, although I’d prefer it not be connected in any way to this project. The lease will be secured through another subsidiary.”
“I won’t speak a word of any of this, except to those who need to be directly involved to make the arrangement happen. You have my word as Prime Minister.”
“Very good, thank you. The foundation goes by the name Jörmungandr.”
“The mythical serpent eating its own tail. Fascinating. Any particular reason for that name?”
Astrid smiled. “I assure you that all will become clear in time.”
Chapter One
T he attack would come at Stainmore Pass. Eric might have expected it, had his head been clear, but he’d been obsessed with thoughts of reclaiming his rightful status since being ousted from the royal castle at York three days earlier. Eric was convinced that it was his destiny to be King, if not of Norway, then of Northumbria, and not even his ouster from both thrones (twice from the latter) could disabuse him of the idea.
Tall and broad-shouldered, with fine blond hair like that of his father, Eric rode at the lead of his company astride an impressive chestnut mare. Fifty horsemen, among them his lieutenant Gulbrand, his son Haeric and his brother Ragnald, followed. Most of these men were Norsemen, many of whom had been with Eric since he’d first arrived on the English shore fifteen years earlier. Their fortunes rose and fell with Eric’s, and they had seen more than their share of ups and downs over the years.
They rode or trudged along the old Roman road that cut through the peat-covered fells east of the Pennines. It was early spring, and the air was cold and damp, the sky a mottled gray. They intended to camp just beyond Stainmore and then continue toward their intended destination of Bamburgh, some hundred miles north, where allies were said to await. They would never get there.
Eric, the firstborn son of King Harald of Norway, had earned the name Bloodaxe for the manner in which he dealt with siblings who had attempted to usurp his birthright. Impatient for the throne, Eric had voyaged across the sea as a young man to find his fortune. He led men in a series of battles across England, ultimately failing to achieve any lasting victory. He returned to Norway after his father’s death, and reigned there as King until he was ousted in favor of his more personable younger brother, Haakon. He fled the country and again sought his fortune in England, ultimately seizing the throne of Northumbria in the year 947. His reign was short-lived: King Eadred of the English led a ruthless campaign through Northumbria, promising to end the destruction only if the Northumbrians deserted Eric. They soon did so, and in 948 Eric was once again without a throne. Eric bade his time in the north of the country, and eventually the Northumbrians tired of King Olaf, who had been appointed by Eadred in Eric’s place. The people drove out Olaf and in 952 once again invited Eric to be King.
Given the Northumbrians’ fickleness, Eric was not entirely surprised to find himself once again leading a band of loyalists along the road out of York. He was, however, congenitally unable to accept his exile as permanent; he knew as certainly as he breathed that he was meant to be a king. He viewed his current exile, like the previous ones, as temporary interruptions of his divinely fated role. It was this very stubbornness that history tells us was his undoing.
For Eric so desperately needed to believe that all events were working toward the restoration of his kingship that when word came from Osulf, the high-reeve of Northumbria, that he was raising a force of men at Bamburgh loyal to the erstwhile king, Eric entertained no doubts as to the message’s veracity. Ragnald and Eric’s lieutenant, Gulbrand, had urged caution, counseling that although Osulf had been friendly in the past, the high-reeve had little to gain from Eric’s return to the throne. It was more likely, they said, that Eadred had inveigled upon Osulf to lure Eric to the north, where an ambush might be prepared for him. But Eric refused to listen, and ultimately ordered them to silence. In silence they approached the pass in the hills called Stainmore, Eric’s brother Ragnald—a heavyset, balding man who had a pleasant demeanor but none of Eric’s charisma or cleverness—to his left and Gulbrand just behind him. Alongside the hulking, battle-scarred Gulbrand rode Eric’s son, Haeric, a strapping young man of twenty.
Eric spotted the first of the horsemen coming around a bend a hundred yards off. Almost at the same time, cries went up from behind him as more riders crested the hillsides to their left and right. It was a well-planned ambush: Eric’s men had just come through the narrowest part of the pass; there was no easy escape to the rear, and they were now flanked on three sides. Judging from the number of riders pouring down the hillsides, Eric’s men were outnumbered at least two to one.
Eric shouted for his men to close ranks and hold firm. They drew their swords as horses thundered down the steep hillsides. An ordinary man facing such odds might have been afraid, but Eric’s stubbornness precluded the possibility of that emotion. He knew he would be King once again, not only of Northumberland, but probably Norway as well. It was his destiny, and destiny would not be denied. So he drew his broadsword and shouted at the attackers to come at him, failing to notice that the red and yellow markings on their shields showed them to be the very men who were supposed to have met them in Bamburgh to assist him in retaking the throne at York.
“We are betrayed, Eric!” cried Ragnald, but Eric, a prisoner of his own delusion, did not understand his brother’s meaning. “Stand firm, Ragnald!” Eric shouted. The attackers were over halfway down the hillsides now, and the size of their force was fully evident. Eric’s men had closed ranks along the road, facing outward, their swords and spears at the ready. Terror had seized many of them, but there was no place for them to flee. It was clear to all but Eric that they had been drawn into the pincers of a near-perfect trap.
The pass was just wide enough here for Eric’s party to form a rough defensive circle, their horses standing nearly flank-to-flank. As the attackers’ horses broke into a gallop, Eric rode around the outside of the perimeter, barking orders and encouragement. He knew many would likely die here today, but he would not give his enemies an easy victory. “For King Eric!” shouted one of the men, and it soon became a raucous chant, the men thrusting their swords and axes in the air as they proclaimed their willingness to die for their leader. Eric grinned and brought his horse around to face the riders thundering down the northern side of the pass.
War cries and the clash of metal behind him told Eric that the attackers coming down the opposite side of the pass had met the defenders on the southern side of the circle. A glance to Eric’s left revealed that the riders on the road had nearly closed with his men as well. The thirty or so riders coming down the northern slope, hampered by the steeper ground there, were still some fifty yards off.
“Come on, you sons of whores!” Eric howled. “You’re late!”
The riders in the lead were only twenty yards off when a shout went up from the direction Eric’s men had come. Eric mig
ht have taken it to be one of the attackers, having flanked them to the rear, but the voice was high-pitched and shrill: a woman’s voice. What the devil was a woman doing in this desolate land, miles from the nearest village? A mad witch, no doubt, roaming the moor. Gulbrand, just to Eric’s right, gave a shrug. They had more pressing concerns.
“Eric!” the voice called again, and this time there was no mistaking it: she was calling his name. “This way!”
His curiosity getting the better of him, Eric turned, taking his attention away from the horsemen, the closest of whom were now within a stone’s throw. There she stood, tall and blond, wearing a strange, skin-tight suit of some strange gray fabric that covered her entire body from the neck down. Her appearance was striking, but she was more handsome than beautiful. She didn’t look to be more than twenty years in age. Eric had converted to Christianity to ease his way into the throne of Northumberland, but he found himself wondering if Valkyries were real after all. Had she come to aid him or to carry him from the battlefield to Valhalla? And if she were truly a Valkyrie, where was her sword?
The thought had barely formed in his head when the woman unslung something from her back. Not a sword, but something long and black, like a great cast iron crossbow. It could hardly be iron, though, for her to heft it so easily. She pointed the end of the thing up the hillside toward the line of riders thundering toward Eric, made some adjustment to it, and then seemed to brace herself, as if she expected the device to transform into a writhing snake in her hands. Despite the advance of the riders in front of him, Eric found himself staring at her in wonder. He was not disappointed. Fire erupted from the end of the device, and a split second later the entire valley was filled with a roar like thunder. Unlike thunder, though, it was rhythmic, and went on and on: Brrrrap! Brrrrap! Brrrrap! Brrrrap!
Men and horses fell in a mist of blood and mud, their momentum carrying them forward in a chaotic tumble of broken limbs and shattered shields. One horse collapsed, throwing its rider, and then rolled head over heels, eventually bowling over the first line of defenders. A few of the other horses, spooked but apparently uninjured, managed to skid to a halt and then bolted to the east or west. Their riders, thrown thirty or more feet through the air, landed hard on the muddy ground. Many died instantly, their necks broken; others lay moaning or tried to crawl out of the way of the several dozen horses bearing down on them. Most of them failed, and another line of horsemen went down as their mounts lost their footing or panicked and bolted.
The War of the Iron Dragon: An Alternate History Viking Epic (Saga of the Iron Dragon Book 5) Page 2
