by Carrie Ryan
But now it felt like the words he’d read had always been dry. They’d tried to capture past events, to transport him there in his mind, but as he stood on the Île de la Cité, the Island of Paris, Dak realized that the books had been mere ghosts. Reality was so much cooler. Smellier, too.
Just then, the bombardment stopped, and the cacophony of war horns and shouts from the other side of the wall was replaced with the sound of ringing church bells. Dak watched as a contingent of Vikings started to make their way into the city over a low stone bridge that stretched across the Seine from the north bank of the river.
Dak wanted nothing more than to run forward and get a better look, but Sera already had her hand firm on his shoulder. “Don’t even think about it. We have a Hystorian to find. Here, help us figure out what this means.”
She held out the SQuare, and Dak read the highlighted lines:
To find the person whom you seek
Upset the clue within:
To lead you to the Hystorian
Find a roofless inn.
Dak stared at the words, but he had absolutely no clue what they meant. “This should be Riq’s gig — he’s the expert on things like this,” he said. “I’m just the history buff. And as your guide through all past occurrences, I think our time would be better spent eavesdropping.”
He pointed toward a small group of Parisians striding through the inner city. Many of them were priests, with ornately decorated tunics over their cowls. Others were soldiers, their own tunics less ornate and complemented with chain mail.
Dak knew an official welcoming party when he saw one. The priests and soldiers were on their way to meet with the Viking contingent on the bridge, and Dak desperately wanted to be there for that discussion. Although he figured the important stuff wouldn’t happen until they’d all gathered in some central location.
“Those are the guys who make decisions around here,” Dak said. “The Hystorian is probably one of them, or on his way to wherever they’re headed. That’s where the history is going to happen, and that’s where we need to be!”
“You’re forgetting that we don’t look like Parisians,” Sera argued.
“Well, technically we are dressed like Parisians. Just Parisians of another century. We’re very fashion forward!” Dak tugged on the ruffles at his wrist and wagged his eyebrows.
“Dak . . .” Sera’s tone of voice left no question — she was getting fed up.
Dak put a hand on her arm. He and Sera had known each other for a really long time, since before they could talk, actually, but sometimes he didn’t understand her at all. These were real, actual, honest-to-Thor Vikings. How could she not want to get closer to them? “Trust me,” he said. “Have I steered you wrong before? Besides, I think I know what’s about to happen. And it could be crucial to our mission here.”
Riq looked up from where he was pawing through a low wooden trunk on the other side of the room.
Dak took a moment to relish their undivided attention before diving in. “The small contingent of Vikings crossing into the city is headed by Siegfried, their leader. Well, I don’t know if leader is the right word since Viking society wasn’t strictly ordered the same as ours. Usually power wasn’t quite so concentrated —”
Sera cleared her throat and began tapping her foot.
“Er, right. Anyway, just before the Vikings sack Paris, Siegfried has a little chat with their bishop, Gauzelin, and asks him to hand the city over. The bishop agrees. The Parisians figure everything’s cool — so they’re pretty surprised when the Vikings attack the next morning.”
Riq frowned. “That doesn’t seem sportsmanlike,” he said.
Dak shrugged. “That’s not really what the Vikings are known for. They were more the pillaging-and-plundering kind of folk.”
Sera’s body appeared to tense a bit at that. “So this Siegfried guy — what happens after he takes Paris?”
Dak felt the same excitement he always did before imparting cool historical details. “He becomes one of the most powerful men in France. See, he ends up settling down in Normandy, the region of France right across the channel from England. It turns out that bit of land is pretty strategically important — it’s the perfect launching spot for an invasion of Great Britain in the eleventh century. Siegfried’s great-great-great-grandson, Bill Helm the Vanquisher, does just that!”
Sera and Riq stared at him, and it took him a second to realize that they didn’t understand the importance of that. He sighed deeply.
“Every modern-day European monarch is descended from Bill Helm the Vanquisher, AKA the dude who conquered England. And, of course, that means . . .” He felt like a teacher trying to pull an obvious conclusion from his students.
“It means every king, every queen — they’re all descendants of Siegfried the Viking,” Sera answered, her eyes wide.
Riq was the one to say out loud what Dak had already been thinking. “This siege is about more than just Paris. The fate of the whole world is at stake.”
Dak nodded. “And with that much power up for grabs, you can bet the SQ is already here.”
DAK AND RIQ stood just outside their shelter to give Sera privacy while she changed. Dak had to grudgingly admit that Riq had done a pretty good job putting together proper outfits from the scraps he’d found in the trunk. Of course, it had taken a bit of doing to figure out what went where. They’d shoved their old shoes into the bottom of their satchel, since nothing screamed anachronism more than sneakers.
That still left Dak in a shin-length tunic, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. It was way too easy to imagine accidentally flashing ninth-century Paris. And he definitely didn’t want to think too much about who’d worn these clothes before (and how long it had been since they’d been washed).
At least Riq looked even more ridiculous in his own getup. “You remind me of my grandfather with your socks tied up around your knees like that,” Dak quipped.
The older boy smirked at him. “You look like my grandma in your little dress.”
Dak couldn’t think of a comeback fast enough and resigned himself to scowling. He watched impatiently as more and more Parisians made their way toward a large stone cathedral. His toes curled in his new (old) boots, wanting to join in the throng.
“So, you think this Viking leader Siegfried might be SQ?” Riq asked.
“It seems likely to me,” Dak said. “Around the late eighth century the Vikings became pretty aggressive and started taking over a bunch of places, pillaging along the way. Before then they’d more or less stayed up in Norway and Denmark, and no one really knows why they decided to expand their territory. Some historians think it’s because, with the Medieval Warm Period, it got easier to head out on the ocean, and others think that available land just became too scarce on the Scandinavian peninsula. Now that I think about it, though, it would make sense that they’d actually be led by SQ going for a big land grab.”
Riq nodded. “So what do you think that means for us? Where do you think the Break is?”
Dak had been thinking about this already, his mind whirring over all the possibilities. “Okay, pretend you’re Siegfried and you’re SQ.” He paused and squinted at Riq. “Well, if you were a Viking you’d have a beard and smell less, but moving on.”
“You couldn’t get a beard if you shaved your head and glued it to your face,” Riq muttered.
Dak ignored that. “So you’re an evil, stinky, ugly SQ guy with a big army and you’re traveling all over the world pushing people around. What are you really after?”
“Power,” Sera said as she stepped out to join them. Dak choked on a laugh. Like the rest of them, she was wearing hose fastened at her knees with a scrap of lace, and a tunic draped over a long undershirt and tied around her waist with a belt. From the belt hung a sack with a familiar bulge that could only be the Infinity Ring. A formle
ss brown cape hung from her shoulders to the back of her knees, and what was left of her hair was tucked up into a misshapen wool cap.
“You do a pretty good job passing as a boy.” Dak tweaked the cap, making it fall farther over her eyes.
Riq stepped forward and righted it, tucking stray bits of her hair back up under it. “One of these days we’ll find a time in history when you can get dressed up nicely,” he said.
Dak wanted to groan, but Sera’s face lit up at the prospect.
“Anyway,” he interjected. “Sera’s right — it’s really all about power. That’s pretty much what history is: people grabbing power and then losing it to someone else.” Which is exactly why Dak loved it so much. Science always seemed like a boring recitation of facts, but history . . . it was all one big adventure story.
“That still doesn’t help us fix the Break,” Riq said. “And we haven’t unraveled the code to figure out what we’re supposed to be doing here, or figured out how to find the Hystorian.”
“Code, schmode — we’ve got this.” Dak grinned. “Watch and learn, my friend,” he said and started strolling toward the church.
The front face of the church loomed over them, towers dotted with arched windows rising on either side of the entrance. Once they were inside, everything was darker, the row of windows close to the ceiling letting in little of the morning’s watery light. Already the nave was full of Parisians, many of them spilling into the transepts on either side of the altar.
Thankfully Dak, Sera, and Riq were dressed like everyone else so they didn’t stand out so much. Dak used his small size to his advantage, slipping through the crowd toward the front of the church. At times like this it was useful to be young — no one seemed to pay him any attention.
When the contingent of Vikings entered, the crowded church grew so quiet that Dak could hear the rattle of swords in scabbards as the large Danish men strode forward. He was mesmerized. He’d seen depictions of Vikings from tapestries and drawings in his books, but seeing them in person was different. They were huge, with long mustaches braided out to their ears, and beards that fell from their chins.
He’d expected them to look more barbaric — everything he’d ever read about them mentioned their cruelty and filthiness — but these men didn’t seem to match that description at all. In fact, they seemed cleaner and better dressed than most of the Parisians.
Their leader, Siegfried, was older than the others. Judging from the lines on his face, he’d probably never once smiled in his life. His cloak was pinned to his right shoulder, which kept his arm free — and even in the cathedral he kept his hand on the hilt of his sword.
Dak was pretty sure that the guy could lop off a head or a leg with one swing, his arms were so thick with muscles. Of course, that didn’t stop Dak from edging closer to get a better look. Sera kept hissing at him to stop, but her unease didn’t keep her from following as he made his way forward.
Just as they reached the edge of the crowd ringing the altar at the front of the cathedral, an old priest shuffled out of a side room and approached the band of Vikings. He was pretty weighed down with ornate robes that hung from his bony shoulders, and for a moment Dak wasn’t sure he’d actually make it across the altar before keeling over. Flanking him were several other clergymen who seemed prepared to catch him if it came to that.
Siegfried stepped forward and spoke first. Dak’s earpiece translated every word. “Bishop Gauzelin, have compassion on yourself and on your flock. Allow us the freedom of the city. We will do no harm, and we will see to it that whatever belongs to you shall be strictly protected.”
Bishop Gauzelin turned to the priests around him and started to whisper as they debated Siegfried’s request.
Dak felt his heart begin to race. “This is it,” he whispered to Sera and Riq. “This is where the bishop hands over the city. And did you see what Siegfried is using to pin his cloak?” Dak tilted his head toward the gigantic Viking — whose bronze pin bore the unmistakable insignia of the SQ. “Man, sometimes I hate being right.”
“I’m still not sure about this, Dak,” Sera fretted. “I think we should figure out what the code from Brint and Mari says before jumping to any conclusions.”
It bothered him that Sera had so little faith in him, especially since he’d never been wrong before. Oddly, Riq seemed willing to take his side, which was a rarity in itself. “Do you think that’s really all there is to this Break? Keeping that Viking guy from getting into Paris?” Riq asked.
Dak rolled his eyes at Riq’s imprecision with historical details. “He’s not just ‘some guy’ and, yeah, I think keeping the bishop from handing over the city is a pretty good start. Siegfried is an agent of the SQ and his power base starts with Paris, so it makes sense to make sure that never happens. We just have to figure out how to do that.”
“What if we just —” Riq started to offer.
Dak scoffed and cut him off. “I don’t think learning about the origin of some obscure and useless word is what we need right now, and your skills are pretty limited beyond being a linguist.”
Riq raised his eyebrows and glanced at Sera, who only shrugged in response. Dak shifted his focus back to the group gathering at the front of the church, trying to figure out how best to intervene.
His thoughts were interrupted by a smarting slap on the back. “Watch and learn, my friend,” Riq said over his shoulder as he strode forward. The next thing Dak knew, Riq was leaping onto the dais.
Sera let out an alarmed little squeak as she tried to grab for Riq’s tunic but she was too late. Soon enough Riq was approaching the flock of priests. “What’s he doing?” she asked.
Dak shrugged; he didn’t know, but whatever it was, he wasn’t going to be left out. He was just about to climb up after him when Riq stepped between the two groups.
Siegfried looked Riq over dismissively, the furrows on his face deepening. “Who is this boy?”
Riq responded easily and smoothly, showing no fear or hesitation. “Bishop Gauzelin is not as skilled in the Danish tongue as I am and has allowed my assistance as a translator.”
Siegfried frowned. One of the large men in his entourage stepped forward, a large red scar across his face puckering as he asked, “And how does one as dark as you come to know the Danish tongue?”
When Riq hesitated to answer the scarred Viking took another step until he was almost towering over the smaller boy. He had the same brutish look about him as the Time Warden they’d run into in Spain. Dak remembered how they’d been caught in Palos de la Frontera during their first Break. The Time Warden overheard them talking just after they’d warped into 1492 and noticed how out of place the three of them looked in their stolen clothes and anachronistic demeanor.
Dak, Sera, and Riq were all too aware of the men and women who’d been trained throughout time to search for anything or anyone suspicious, and a dark-skinned teenager in medieval Paris who knew how to speak French, Latin, and Old Norse certainly qualified as odd. If Siegfried was SQ then it would make sense that one of his men might be a Time Warden, and the Time Warden’s only job was to search out time travelers and eliminate them.
They couldn’t risk getting caught and right now, getting caught looked likely. Sera gripped Dak’s hand hard enough he was pretty sure she’d leave dents in his bones.
“Do something,” she urged.
Dak’s mind weeded through a myriad of historical details, searching out the best possible excuse for Riq. In the end, it didn’t matter because Riq came up with his own solution: the truth. “My father was a scholar,” Riq explained. “I speak sixteen languages.”
He delivered the explanation with his usual air of smugness and though the scarred Viking opened his mouth as if to press the issue, Siegfried stepped forward, cutting him off. “Ignore Gorm. What is Bishop Gauzelin’s response to our request?”
Dak’s translator device switched smoothly to French again, and he overheard Gauzelin and Riq speaking back and forth, discussing their response. The bishop was clearly telling Riq to give in to the Viking demands.
Riq nodded in understanding and then turned to Siegfried. “Bishop Gauzelin tells me that Paris has been entrusted to us by the emperor. It is our responsibility to protect it.”
Dak’s jaw dropped and Sera frowned. “That’s not what the bishop said,” she whispered.
“Not at all,” Dak agreed. He had absolutely no idea what Riq was planning.
Riq continued to talk, falsely translating what the bishop actually said. “If you had been given the duty of defending these walls, and if you instead gave in to the demands of a foreign army, what treatment do you think you would deserve?”
Siegfried laughed, a deep booming sound that echoed off the stone walls. “I would deserve to have my head cut off and thrown to the dogs.”
Riq crossed his arms over his chest and Dak was impressed with how imposing he looked among the massive Vikings and the frail priests. “So you understand our position and why we will not yield.”
Siegfried stepped forward until he was towering over Riq. In an instant he’d gone from laughter to fury. Sera’s grip on Dak’s hand tightened, something Dak didn’t even think was possible until he felt bones grinding together.
“If you do not bow to my demands,” Siegfried growled, “then tomorrow our war machines will destroy you.”
Riq grinned. “Bring it on.”
Dak almost groaned at the use of such a misdated phrase but it seemed to have the intended effect of catching Siegfried off guard. The Viking furrowed his brow in confusion before stepping back to join his men. “You’ve made your choice. Tomorrow face the wrath of Odin’s finest warriors.” Then they turned and strode from the hall, long cloaks billowing behind them.
