by David Wood
Then she did fall forward, but was held in place somehow, her arms stretched up behind her, secured to something just higher than her shoulders. Ropes bit into her wrists. She pulled her head up off her muscled, hairy chest, tasted blood on her lips that ran into her beard with her sweat and saliva.
“I am a King!” she roared. Cold wind swirled around her naked body.
Leather-armored men with bloodstained weapons stood all around, and Ivar the Boneless, the huge, muscled son of Ragnar Lodbrok, stepped forward. The other sons of that damned Ragnar stood behind, faces like dark thunderclouds of rage and hate. Fires crackled all around, lighting up the night with orange glows, and smoke roiled by.
Rose-Aella grimaced, refusing to show any fear.
Ivar spoke, but his voice was strange. Though Rose looked out from Aella’s eyes and saw Ivar, she knew the voice belonged to Halvdan Landvik.
“Tell us what we want to know,” he said.
Rose spoke with Aella’s deep baritone. “I don’t know what you want.”
She remembered the battles, the victories. She saw Ragnar Lodbrok die at her hand, cast down into that pit of snakes, and she smiled. Aella’s presence swelled inside her and Rose was pushed back deep inside, able to do no more than advise. Or not even that, perhaps only watch. Aella spoke again, his tone defiant. “Ragnar Lodbrok was twice the man you’ll ever be.”
“And yet here you are on your knees before me,” Ivar said. “Tell me where it is.”
Aella met the other man’s gaze and bared his teeth in a wordless snarl, not trusting his voice to be strong if he spoke. He could never possibly let Ivar find what he sought.
Rose watched through Aella’s eyes, as if from miles away, though she still felt the wind and the heat of the bonfires, still smelled their smoke. But she was fading, Aella’s mind taking over, pushing her away and yet, simultaneously, she knew her presence somehow weakened the Briton king, made him more vulnerable to the interrogation. The tiny, scared part of her screamed at Aella to tell Ivar what he wanted to know, to make all this end. Aella’s presence resisted, refusing to jeopardize all he had done, prepared to take his place in Heaven if that’s what must happen. The strong, defiant part of Rose tried to howl out her own insubordination, tried to lend strength to Aella, but she was a mere conduit, with no more agency than a stretch of desert highway. And that thread of her consciousness only weakened the blockage in Aella, and opened the way for Ivar-Landvik to get the information he wanted.
“Where is Mjolnir?” Ivar-Landvik demanded, and Rose fell backwards into darkness.
Landvik stood before Rose Black’s inert form, watching her chest gently rise and fall. The night coolness made the grass damp and it began to darken her clothes.
“Pick her up,” he said to one of the robed figures behind her.
“What shall we do with her now?” the figure asked. “Make it look like an accident?”
Landvik pursed his lips, thinking of all he had learned, all he still didn’t know. Then he shook his head. “We must keep her alive. It’s possible we’ll need more information from Aella before this is all over. This ritual is new to us. Maybe I can make a better job of it next time if this information proves insufficient.”
“This time it nearly killed her,” a female voice said. “She’s strong, but whatever she experienced is maybe stronger. If we do it again, it might kill her anyway.”
Landvik nodded. “So be it. We won’t do it again unless we absolutely have to. But she stays with us, in case. Sedate her and bring her along.”
Chapter 40
The island of Björkö, Sweden
Crowley winced as the knife point spiked into the flesh of his upper back, then a soft sound rang down from above. Crowley frowned. It had sounded like a stone hitting the roof high above them, as if something small had dropped from a great height.
Phillipe, standing in front of Crowley, looked up, clearly questioning Karl. The touch of Karl’s knife disappeared and Crowley breathed a sigh of relief, though he imagined it would be short lived.
Phillipe and Karl exchanged a few words, then Karl called out, presumably to the one who had carried Karol’s body up to the offices. There was a pregnant pause, silence growing heavy. Karl called out again, louder this time, and got no response. Crowley allowed himself a small smile.
More words and Phillipe pulled his gun from his jacket and jogged off. Crowley heard his shoes on the metal stairs, quickly at first and then slowing as he neared the top. Karl’s knife touched the side of Crowley’s neck, like a shard of ice.
“Don’t move and don’t speak,” Karl said softly, but his voice was a little distant. Crowley assumed he was turned away, watching Phillipe make his way along the mezzanine level.
Phillipe called out something, followed by a crash. Karl’s knife moved away fractionally and Crowley wasted no time. He hauled himself sideways, further from the blade, using all his strength to drag with him one of the metal frames to which he was tied. A gunshot rang out and a shout, then sounds of fighting. Glass smashed.
Crowley threw himself back and down, the metalwork falling with him. It clanged to the concrete almost on his head, close enough to have brained him senseless if he hadn’t twisted his neck to avoid it. But he didn’t spare that a thought as he kicked out, high and dead center. Karl was lunging forward, face twisted in fury, the knife raised high, and Crowley’s heel slammed into his solar plexus.
Karl woofed out his breath and for the first time Crowley saw a bruise across the man’s cheek, a swelling to one side of his mouth. In bizarre slow motion he had the impression this was the man Rose had hit, the one who had bled not six feet away from where he now lay. It drove a crazed laugh from Crowley and he threw his hip over to kick out again with the other leg, this time cracking his booted foot across Karl’s jaw. Karl’s head whipped to one side and he staggered away, dropped to his knees, his head swaying slightly as he fought to remain conscious.
Two more gunshots boomed from above, then another crash and a scream of pain.
Crowley used all the strength he had to haul himself back to his feet, dragging the two metal stands with him. They stretched his shoulder muscles almost to the breaking point, but he ignored the pain and took one step forward, then another. Then he pulled back one foot and, as Karl looked up, eyes swimming left and right, Crowley swung his kick in like he was punting for a field goal. Karl’s head snapped up and back, several teeth flying in a spray of blood, and collapsed onto his back.
Movement on the mezzanine above caught Crowley’s eye and he flinched back, restricted by the massive weight of metal hanging off each wrist, then he grinned.
“Need a hand down there?” Cameron asked.
“Phillipe?” Crowley asked.
“The guy who came up the stairs or the one who was already up here?”
“Either now you come to mention it.”
“Both deader than flower power and flared trousers, mate.”
Crowley laughed. “You’re a legend. I see desk work hasn’t made you soft.”
“Not even slightly, it would seem.”
Cameron came down the stairs, watching Karl as he did. The big blond man began to writhe slightly, a low moan escaping. Cameron took his knife and cut the bonds at Crowley’s wrists.
“Thanks,” Crowley said, rubbing his skin. He found his shirt and jacket and quickly pulled them on.
“You want me to finish this guy too?”
“Not yet, thanks. We need information. I’m glad you came when you did.”
Cameron nodded. “When you stopped responding to my texts I figured you might be compromised. Found a way in over the roof of the building next door.”
Crowley crouched beside Karl. “Where is she?”
Karl sneered, his mouth full of blood that ran over one cheek and dripped onto the pale concrete. He said something in Swedish that sounded rather unpleasant.
Crowley took the knife from Cameron and pressed it against Karl’s throat. “Where. Is.
She?”
“You’re going to kill me anyway, I’m telling you nothing,” Karl said.
“I can make it very unpleasant for you,” Crowley said. “How about we do the blood eagle torture on you? I know exactly how it works, you know.”
Karl’s face blanched, his eyes momentarily wild.
“Oh yeah,” Crowley said. “And I’ll enjoy it too.”
Karl let out a humorless laugh. “It’s irrelevant, you’re already too late. And besides, if they’re still there you can’t sneak up on someone in open parkland. They’ll gun you down from a distance.”
“Open parkland? Near here?”
Cameron leaned forward. “Birka?” he asked. “Did they take her to the archeological site?”
Karl’s eyes flickered and Cameron shared a nod with Crowley. “I think that’s all we need to know.”
Crowley smiled. “It is. And I think we need to hurry. Goodbye, Karl.”
It didn’t take long to reach the site, but it was obvious from a distance that no one was there.
“We too late?” Cameron asked.
Crowley shrugged. “Lots of dark places under those trees. Let’s hunt around. We have no other leads.”
They jumped from the car and made their way quickly to the foot of the rocky hill with the cross on top, surrounded by a square, spike-topped fence. After several minutes of searching, growing increasingly frustrated, Crowley stopped and let his arms fall flat to his sides.
“That bloody Karl was right. We’re too late.”
Cameron shook his head ever so slightly, and gestured with a subtle nod to one side. Crowley didn’t turn his head, but let his eyes track sideways, searching the darkness. He saw what Cameron had seen; a small shape huddled in the darkness at the base of a large tree, trying hard to hide.
“Oh well,” Crowley said. “One last look around, you go that way.” He pointed away from the tree. “I’ll go this way.” He gestured back toward the car.
Cameron immediately took his meaning, knew they could go in opposite directions and circle around behind the tree unseen, to come behind whoever it was in case the person made a break for it. They trudged off through the darkness, then lightened their steps as they quickly doubled back. The man crouching had about two seconds to realize they had flanked him and leapt up to run, but they were on him, each grabbing one arm.
The man yelled in Swedish, struggled frantically for a moment. Crowley braced himself, wincing at the pain in his hastily bandaged calf. The wound was superficial, an annoyance more than a hindrance. He had been lucky. Crowley gripped the man’s arm harder, pushed him back against the tree trunk, and the man stilled. He wore a long dark hooded robe, like some kind of monk. Cameron reached up and pulled the man’s hood away, revealing a pasty, puffy round face and balding head. The man was in his fifties or thereabouts, and his eyes were wide with fear. He jabbered quickly in Swedish.
“English,” Crowley said in a low growl.
The man frowned. “Who are you?” he asked, his English heavily accented.
“I might ask you the same question,” Crowley said.
“I’m no one! Just a man enjoying a walk.”
Crowley laughed. “After midnight? Dressed like that? Try again!”
“I’m no one. Leave me be!”
“You haven’t been conducting any weird occult rituals lately?” Crowley asked.
The man winced, then pressed his lips together, his look suddenly defiant.
“Decided to clam up now, huh?”
Cameron looked at the man with a frown, lost in thought for a moment. Then he smiled. “I know who this is,” he said to Crowley. “I thought he was familiar but couldn’t think why for a moment, but it’s just come to me. When I was researching the Sons of Ragnar for you, this guy came up.”
The man’s breathing became rapid and Crowley grinned. “Got you there, hasn’t he?” he looked back to Cameron. “So who is it?”
“His name is Pietr Nilsson. He’s a far right wing politician here in Sweden. Quite a high profile character, aren’t you, Pietr?”
Nilsson clamped his lips together again, his eyes flicking left and right as he tried to watch both Crowley and Cameron equally.
“Now then,” Crowley said, “as we’ve established who you are, you can dispense with the ridiculous midnight stroll in your robes story. What are you doing here?”
“Re-consecrating the site of the knowing,” Nilsson said, his expression smug, like he expected them to simply not understand.
“That’s why they left you behind, is it? To do the cleanup work like a maid?”
Nilsson blanched.
Crowley leaned close. “Where is she?”
“Who?”
Crowley slapped Nilsson hard across one cheek. The politician yelped, his eyes going wide as saucers, bright in the night. The tears standing on his lower lashes indicated he wasn’t used to getting roughed up.
“I don’t have time for any more games!” Crowley said sharply. “Rose Black, the girl you took from Rome, who you just recently subjected to something here. Where is she?”
“I’m not telling you anything,” Nilsson said, but his voice was watery, weak with fear.
Crowley sighed, shook his head. “I am getting so tired of this. I can hurt you, Nilsson. I can make you beg for death. Just tell me what I need to know.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Nilsson said.
It was Crowley’s turn to widen his eyes. “Oh really?” He slapped Nilsson again.
“We can ruin you too,” Cameron added. “We don’t need to physically hurt you. Imagine what we could do to your career if we exposed your connection to the Sons of Ragnar. To everything you’ve been doing here. Not to mention the dirt I’m sure I could dig up on you in no time, should I choose to. You know I’m not lying.”
Nilsson began to shake, still looking left and right, fear making him paler than ever. “You’re too late anyway! She’s gone. Landvik took her.”
Crowley leaned very close, his breath tickling Nilsson’s chubby cheek. “Took her where?”
Chapter 41
Lindisfarne, Holy Island, Berwick-upon-Tweed
Rose blinked, trying to clear her blurred vision. She sat in the back of a moving car, two armed heavies squeezed in either side of her, pinning her in place. A broad man with a shaved head drove with Halvdan Landvik in the front passenger seat.
She felt yet again as though she had been drinking too much, but this time it wasn’t only drugs. She lifted one hand to rub her face and the other hand came with it, her wrists bound together with zip ties. Her head felt full of cotton wool, her ears rang slightly as though she had been at a loud concert the night before. The chance would be a fine thing. She longed for the opportunity to do something as normal and mundane as go to a gig. And to feel this way from actually drinking too much, carefree and happy.
She’d had moments of clarity here and there since the ritual but knew she had been out for hours. The process had left her drained, thoroughly exhausted. Only now was she beginning to feel as though she might be rested enough to start thinking clearly again. She managed to blink her vision clearer and looked out between Landvik and the driver. She recognized the sight ahead of her, as she had been here several times before. Sometimes casually as a tourist, but also in her professional capacity.
Their car was queueing with several others, moving slowly along a narrow roadway that led out across mudflats, water to either side in pools and patches. In the distance was an island. She was looking at the Holy Island of Lindisfarne, off the north east coast of England, not far from the Scottish border. She raked through her memories of the place. A tidal island, also known simply as Holy Island, accessed by this causeway that was cut off by the tide twice every day. Lindisfarne had been an important center of Celtic Christianity under several saints. In the tail end of the eighth century there had been a Viking raid on the island, she remembered that much. After the Viking invasions and the subsequent Norman conquest of England, a
priory had been re-established on Lindisfarne. She had fond memories of exploring its ruins with an ex-lover. The small castle atop the island had been built in the sixteenth century. The island wasn’t large, maybe three miles long by one and a half wide. Sand and mud flats surrounded it, and across a part of that expanse the ancient pilgrims’ path ran. Many people chose to walk that way rather than drive over the relatively modern causeway where she now lined up with her captors. And that was the sum of her groggy recollections. What were they doing here?
They traveled slowly along the mile or so of causeway until the island became clearer ahead of them, all gray rocks and deep green grasses under a lowering sky. One of those classic English days where everything was dull and overcast, even though there may not be rain. She suspected some light drizzle nonetheless, and imagined the gloomy weather would persist for several days. It usually did, especially this far north. The causeway led along the long, narrow spit of land on the island’s western side, sometimes out over the mud flats, other times hugging slight green rises. Slowly, the land on their left grew taller and grassier while mud flats persisted to the right. Eventually they gained the island proper, dry stone walls to one side. The whole place remained low to sea level, but now well above the tides. The street became tree-lined, the dwellings of the islands one hundred and fifty or so residents on either side. Then they entered the small town, white walled buildings and lots of gray-brown stone. In the far distance was an aberration in the otherwise flat landscape, a sudden small peak of rock, the castle atop the hill a gray-brown fortification, standing proud over the slate gray ocean. The sea was relatively calm, so there must not be much wind outside. But they had turned south through the town and continued along that way. Rose knew from previous visits that they were headed to Lindisfarne Priory and Monastery. Why?
She tried to piece together the journey, but it was all a blur. She had vivid flashes of the ritual however. Memories of a different life. Of being a different person. And the flashes of excruciating pain. She shut that memory down quickly before it could overwhelm her again. Even secondhand, that agony was mind-destroying. She had, at least in part, lived it. How was that possible? But she had lived it, felt and heard and smelled the environs of ancient Scandinavia. She knew the sensation of a strong male body. She knew implicitly the fear of certain death and the equally sure certainty of the impending halls of Valhalla. She had felt the knife blade open her back, the ax chop at her bones. She gasped, pushed the memory away again. Could it really all have been some trick on Landvik’s part? Some strange hypnotic spell? But why? There was nothing for him to gain from any of this unless he believed it completely. Which he certainly seemed to. But what exactly did he believe? She strained her mind back, tried to ignore the solid memories of her historical self and recall what the interrogation had entailed. Questions asked and answers given. And then she remembered one word. Mjolnir.
