They agreed, but Grace still didn’t like the idea. As they left the Path and marched up the hill, the grass at Grace’s knees, she looked back constantly to make sure the red stones were still there, charting a course through the collective unconscious.
The angle of the slope turned out to be steeper than it had appeared, and the three of them were soon breathing hard, while above them, the Dog continued to bark, distant and echoed. A few minutes later, they reached the top. The structure Grace had seen from below turned out to be a circle of high stones, each several feet taller than her and a few feet thick. They stood quite close together, with only a few inches between them, but the circle had an opening not far from them. The barking came from inside it.
They hurried through the opening, and within the circle Grace found the Dog sitting next to a man, whining and wagging its tail. The man sat on the ground, his back propped up against one of the stones, his rutted face turned heavenward, with his eyes closed. His gray beard and hair were long and unkempt, and he wore coarse clothing made of fur and animal skins. A long wooden staff lay across his lap.
Grace, Owen, and Natalya approached him cautiously. This situation, and this figure, seemed even less predictable than the Dog.
“Do you think he’s dead?” Owen asked.
“I’m not dead,” the stranger said, opening his eyes. “But I am dying. And I need you to do something for me after I am gone.”
Restrained in the Animus, Sean could do nothing as Isaiah stalked toward him across the chapel, wielding the incomplete Trident of Eden.
“Until now I have only relied on your faith,” Isaiah said. “But it seems I must also show you fear.”
Sean didn’t know what he meant by that, but before he could figure it out, an image tore through his mind, casting every other thought aside, more powerful than any simulation. It came from a time before the accident, a recurring fear he used to carry around before his life had become something completely unplanned and unimagined.
He was standing on the soccer field. His teammates had turned their backs on him to go congratulate their opponents on their win. A win that Sean had made possible by screwing up.
It didn’t matter how he had screwed up. The fear came in all varieties. Not just soccer, but basketball and baseball, too. Whenever Sean had taken up a new sport, the image had changed to suit it. But the shame remained the same. The knowledge that the crowd and the team had watched him fail. That he had let them down. The fear of what they were thinking and saying about him when he wasn’t around. The belief that they were right.
He wasn’t talented.
He wasn’t good.
In fact, he was terrible, and it wouldn’t matter how long and hard he practiced. He should probably just quit and do everyone else a favor. He knew the coach and his teammates wanted him gone, but they were just too nice to say it. They only kept him on the team out of pity. His stomach hurt when he thought about having to go back into the locker room with everyone. They’d pat him on the back and tell him it was okay that he screwed up, but it wasn’t. Rather than face that, he wanted the field to open up beneath him and suck him down where no one would find him and he could be forgotten.
He was worthless. More than worthless, he was the one holding other people back.
“Sean,” a soothing voice said.
The image left, and Sean returned to the chapel. Isaiah stood before him. Sean’s cheeks felt wet, and he realized he’d been crying.
“Whatever you just saw,” Isaiah said, “I can free you from it. But only if you listen to me and do as I say. Your ancestor, Styrbjörn, was a stubborn individual, and I think perhaps that is rubbing off on you through the Bleeding Effects. But I need you to stay strong and resist him. I need you to remember why we’re here, and how essential you are. I am very proud of you for what you’ve accomplished so far. You and I, we can do this together.”
As Isaiah spoke, Sean felt the ground firming up beneath him. He realized there wasn’t any reason for him to fear that he might fail. Not when he had Isaiah. It didn’t matter what his teammates and his coaches had said or thought about him. However badly Sean had screwed up before, that didn’t matter now, because he had Isaiah and he believed what Isaiah said.
“Are you ready to go back into your ancestor’s memories?” Isaiah asked.
Sean nodded. “I’m ready.”
“Excellent.”
The chapel doors opened and several technicians swept into the room. They scurried over to the Animus, and very quickly had the simulation ready again. Isaiah placed the helmet back on Sean’s head, and gave his shoulder a firm squeeze before throwing him back into the wild river of Styrbjörn’s mind. Moments later, he stood between Palnatoke and Harald Bluetooth, shoulder to shoulder at the bow of his ship.
The calm waters of Lake Mälaren had granted his fleet easy passage, though the journey had not been as swift as he would have liked. They had stopped at several villages along the way to recruit men to his banner, but few had joined. It seemed that in his absence, honor had become a rarity among the Svear, but it was also said that cunning trolls had begun to stalk the forests, high in the trees, ready to slay anyone who supported Styrbjörn. Escaped bondsmen had been attacked, and the word had spread. But Styrbjörn didn’t believe in trolls.
Superstition or not, it was no matter, for he had more than enough warriors and ships to defeat Eric, and would soon reach the mouth of the Fyriswater. From there, they would row up the river to Uppsala and to battle.
Palnatoke seemed as eager for that as Styrbjörn, as did all the Jomsvikings, whose covenant disposed them to war making. But to his other side, Harald’s cowardice had become more pronounced with each passing league, and his hand never left the dagger he wore. It offended Styrbjörn that his sister had wed this Dane, no matter his power and the size of his kingdom.
“What is that?” he finally asked Harald, nodding to the dagger. “It is a strange blade. I can think of no use for it. And yet you hold to it as a suckling pig to its mother’s teat.”
An angry red entered the white of Harald’s face. “It is nothing to you.”
“If it was nothing to me, I would not ask.”
“Then it is simply nothing.”
“I doubt that very much. What is it to you?”
Harald shut his mouth and held it fast, the first sign of resolve he had yet shown, and in that moment Styrbjörn’s curiosity about the dagger reached a point where it would not be denied. Sean had been waiting for a moment like this, for his ancestor to finally notice the Piece of Eden.
“I have a bargain I wish to make with you,” Styrbjörn said.
Harald glowered at him. To his other side, Palnatoke listened and watched with a glint of amusement in his eye.
“Are you not going to ask about the terms of my bargain?” Styrbjörn said.
“I am not,” Harald said.
“I shall tell you all the same.” Styrbjörn turned to face Harald in full, with his arms folded. “I will release you, and your men, and your ships. Here. Now.”
Harald looked at him then, as a fish eyes the bait on a hook.
“I swear it,” Styrbjörn said. “If you pay my price, I will release you, and you are free to return to your wife, my sister, with your honor.”
“And what is your price?” Harald asked with narrowed eyes. “I expect you want my dagger? But I shall not give it to you, not for—”
“No.” Styrbjörn looked away, as if he momentarily found the distant shoreline more interesting than their conversation. “I do not want your dagger.”
“Then what do you want?” Harald now sounded irritated, and Palnatoke leaned forward, as if he, too, were waiting for the answer.
“I want you to take up your dagger,” Styrbjörn said, “and throw it into the waters of Mälaren.”
Palnatoke laughed.
Harald did not.
Meanwhile, Sean felt a sudden panic at the possibility that the dagger might at that moment be lost some
where at the bottom of a very deep lake, depending on how this memory played out. That would also mean the end of the simulation, but it couldn’t be. He couldn’t fail Isaiah.
“As I told you”—Styrbjörn smiled at the Dane-king—“it is a small price. Your freedom and your fleet in exchange for throwing away a simple, useless dagger that you claim means nothing. What do you say to my bargain?”
Harald’s anger finally showed itself in full. The Dane actually quivered with it. “To your bargain, I say no. And to you, I say may the gods curse you.”
“But you no longer believe in the gods,” Styrbjörn said. “You have your White Christ. And now I know your dagger is much more than nothing, which is all I wanted you to admit. I am satisfied.”
Palnatoke laughed again. “You gamble like a dying man, Styrbjörn.”
“It was a ruse?” Harald shook his head. “A game? You made false promises—?”
“Not false,” Styrbjörn said. “If you had thrown that dagger away, I would have kept my word. But I knew you wouldn’t part with it. Now, tell me why.”
“Why?” Harald blinked, appearing somewhat befuddled. “The dagger is a holy relic. A gift from the emperor, the Saxon Otto, delivered to me by the cleric who baptized me a Christian. It came to Otto from the Father of the Church in Rome.”
“It is a relic of the Christ?” Styrbjörn said. “And for that you would trade your freedom and that of your men?”
“I would,” Harald said.
Though this confused and even impressed Styrbjörn, Sean knew it to be a lie, or at least a partial truth. Harald may have received the dagger in the way he’d just explained, but Sean still believed that he also understood its true nature, which accounted for his refusal to throw it away.
“Perhaps you do have a kind of honor,” Styrbjörn said, though he doubted it was the kind of honor that would keep Harald from betraying him, if given the chance.
After that, the fleet sailed on and soon reached the mouth of the Fyriswater, but the ships came to a swift halt when Styrbjörn discovered his route entirely blocked by a man-made stakewall. Tree trunks had been felled and driven into the riverbed, jutting from the water at all angles, thick as bramble and lashed together. There could be no doubt as to its purpose, and Styrbjörn’s disbelief quickly turned to rage when he realized what Eric had done.
“Row the fleet ashore,” he ordered, and that night some of the men made camp on land, while others slept on their ships. Styrbjörn held a council around his fire to discuss the next course for his army. In light of the barricade, the Bluetooth argued for a retreat, the mere suggestion of which confirmed to Styrbjörn that the man was a coward.
“This was supposed to be a surprise attack,” Harald said. “But it is obvious that Eric is prepared for you. More prepared than perhaps you realized.”
“It doesn’t matter how prepared he is,” Styrbjörn said. “I will not retreat, and he will be no more successful than you in standing against me.”
Harald ignored the slight, and Styrbjörn wondered what it would take to finally provoke the Dane, who simply replied, “He outnumbers you.”
“As did you,” Styrbjörn said. “But his numbers will mean nothing when I slay him in front of his men.”
“Your strategy is too single-minded,” Harald said. “Listen to me. I have won many, many battles, and in some I claimed victory without ever needing to draw my sword, but do not listen to me as a king. I speak to you now as my brother, for you are the brother of my wife, and I would not see her grieve your death. There is cunning in those stakes—”
“There is cunning in me!” Styrbjörn roared.
Harald shook his head. “Not as much cunning as I think you will need.”
Styrbjörn restrained himself, and Sean could feel just how difficult that was. “If you had married anyone but my sister, Harald Bluetooth, you would die in this moment, by my hand. You call me a fool?”
“No,” Harald said very calmly. “I think you are quite cunning, in your way. But I think you are impatient. You will need more than your axe and your shield to take back your crown, Styrbjörn the Strong. You will also need time and opportunity, but I do not think you will wait for either.”
“I will not,” Styrbjörn said. “I have waited too long already.”
He hurled a log into the fire, and it kicked up a cloud of glowing ash and ember. All the men except old Palnatoke backed away from the stone ring. Styrbjörn regarded him, hesitant to seek his counsel, for he respected the Jomsviking, and if Palnatoke should agree with Harald, then Styrbjörn might be forced to yield. But to ignore Palnatoke would be the greater mistake.
“What do you say?” Styrbjörn asked, looking at his friend.
Palnatoke glanced at Styrbjörn, and then Harald. “I think we should not underestimate Eric. I agree there is cunning in that stakewall, but I do not agree that we should retreat.”
Styrbjörn nodded, encouraged. “Go on.”
“The question we must answer is how we deal with the impasse. Do we leave our ships and march to Uppsala? Or do we clear the river and go by oar and sail as planned?”
“Clearing the river will take too much time,” Styrbjörn said.
“It will take time.” Palnatoke nodded. “But perhaps that is what Eric wants. To delay you.”
“Or perhaps Eric is trying to force you into an overland march,” Harald said, “in which you will be more vulnerable.”
Styrbjörn found both strategies believable of his uncle, but one of them more so than the other, because he knew Eric to be a coward. Eric had poisoned Styrbjörn’s father. It had never been proven, but Styrbjörn knew it to be true, just as he knew that poison was a coward’s weapon. Eric had staked the waterway for the same reason. He was afraid. He knew that Styrbjörn was coming, and wanted to slow him down any way that he could. That made Styrbjörn’s choice a simple one.
“We march,” he said. “We march hard and swift. Pass word among the men. Make ready to leave at dawn.”
The Jomsviking captains left to spread the order, but Palnatoke and Harald lingered.
“You have more to say?” Styrbjörn asked them.
“Only that we should prepare for further treachery,” Palnatoke said. “It is a long march to Uppsala.”
“We will be ready,” Styrbjörn said. “I do not expect it to be easy. But nothing will stop us.”
“Then I bid you good night, brother-in-arms.” And Palnatoke withdrew to his own bed, among his men.
Then it was Harald’s turn to speak. “I believe you are marching to your death, Styrbjörn. But since I can see that you won’t be dissuaded, I will bid you good night as well.”
“It will take more than a few sticks in the river to frighten me into retreating,” Styrbjörn said. “I fight my battles differently than you.”
Harald nodded and turned away, but just a bit too quickly, and something in his demeanor raised suspicion.
“Where are you sleeping tonight, Harald?” Styrbjörn asked.
Harald hesitated, and Styrbjörn heard treachery in the silence. “I will sleep on my ship, with my men,” Harald said.
“So that you can sail away before dawn?” Styrbjörn asked. “Leaving behind what little honor you possess?”
Harald returned to the fire and faced Styrbjörn from across the flames. “Out of respect for my wife, and allowing for your youth, I have borne your insults. But I will not do so endlessly.”
Styrbjörn rose to his feet and walked around the stone ring to stand over the Dane. “You wish to defend your honor?” Though posed as a question, Styrbjörn intended it as a threat, and Harald’s step backward suggested he understood it as such.
“I will defend my honor in my time and in the manner of my choosing. Good night, Styrbjörn.” Then he turned away again, but Styrbjörn grabbed him by the arm and spun him around.
“You will sleep here tonight,” he said. “Next to my fire.”
Harald shook his head. “No, Styrbjörn. I will sleep on my
ship.”
“I don’t trust you to sleep on your ship. But I know your men won’t leave without you, which means you will not leave my side until we’re well into our march.”
Harald sighed. “What assurance can I give you? Since it is apparently not enough that I am married to your sister.”
Styrbjörn did not need to think long for an answer, and within his thoughts, Sean’s anticipation grew. “Leave your dagger with me,” Styrbjörn said.
Harald balked. “Never.”
“If you don’t leave your dagger with me,” Styrbjörn said, “you don’t leave.”
Harald scowled and tried to push past him, but Styrbjörn grabbed him by the shoulders, lifted him off the ground, and hurled him against a tree. Not hard enough to kill him, but hard enough for him to know how easily he could be killed. Harald staggered to his feet, wincing, and wiped at the blood now running from a gash on his head. Styrbjörn could see the hatred burning inside him, and knew that one day Harald would try to kill him. But not today.
Instead, Harald reached down and unbuckled the dagger from his waist. Then he trudged up to Styrbjörn and shoved the weapon into his hands.
“When your sister mourns you, I will be there to comfort her,” he said. “Know that.” Then he stalked away from the fire and disappeared.
Styrbjörn looked down at the dagger. It truly was a strange weapon, with a curve to its barbed blade, and an unusual grip wrapped in leather. For a Christ relic, it certainly didn’t impress, especially when compared to the hammer of Thor or Odin’s spear. But it wasn’t important what Styrbjörn thought of the dagger. It only mattered that he could control the Bluetooth with it. As he buckled it around his waist, Styrbjörn smiled, but within his memory, Sean laughed.
“Isaiah!” he said “I have it!”
Excellent work, Sean. We’re almost there, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We still need to find out what your ancestor did with the prong.
“Right.” Sean worked to calm himself. “Of course.”
I see that Styrbjörn is about to sleep. Let’s accelerate the memory a bit, shall we?
Fate of the Gods Page 12
