by David Wood
She couldn’t suppress a soft laugh at the recollection. Landvik twisted in the seat to look back at her. “You’re coming around at last.”
“Thor’s Hammer?” Rose said. “Seriously? All of this has been about you searching for a freaking mythical hammer? A thing that never existed?”
Landvik smiled softly, shook his head. “It existed. The great king Ragnar Lodbrok rediscovered it, and by its might he rose to power and led his people to great conquests.”
“Come on!” Rose scoffed. “That’s as much myth as the hammer itself.”
“Lodbrok’s conquests are a matter of historical record.”
“Until he was killed! Why didn’t he hammer all his enemies to death?”
Landvik’s face hardened. “Ragnar lost the true faith. He was fascinated by Christianity, and foolishly believed that to worship both the true gods and the Christian gods would give him even more power. In fact, his apostasy cost him everything.”
“By true gods,” Rose said, “I assume you mean the old Norse gods.”
“Old maybe, but no less powerful. In fact, only more powerful for their age. Except that only a true believer can harness the power of the hammer.”
Rose let her eyebrows rise. “And Ragnar, tempted by the Christian faith, wasn’t a true believer?”
Landvik raised both palms. “Just so. But I am a true believer.”
He fell silent, turned back to face the front as the car left the mainland behind and started to travel slowly along the causeway.
“True nutcase, more like,” Rose muttered. In a louder voice, she asked, “So why are you keeping me with you now, if I’ve already told you where to find the hammer?”
Landvik didn’t turn around, watching the priory ruins grow nearer. The tourist traffic, both in cars and on foot, was heavy. Rose wondered how easily they might haul her around with her hands bound up in the scattered crowds. Maybe she could scream for help, make a scene to get away. But her curiosity burned. “Why keep me?” she asked again.
Landvik sighed. “You told us one word. Lindisfarne. So that is where we are. But we might need to extract a more specific memory from you yet, if we can’t find out why you brought us here. So we’ll start at the priory and begin our search. I suggest you do all you can to remember any details that might be lodged in your mind, or we will have to conduct the ritual again. For your sake, you had better hope it does not come to that.”
Chapter 42
Lindisfarne
Crowley tried to relax in the passenger seat of the Land Rover Discovery while Cameron drove, but it wasn’t easy. His brain roiled with worries, concerns that they would be too late for Rose. And that only made him wonder just what it was they might be too late for. What the hell did these people want with her anyway? For all his techniques, the politician, Nilsson, hadn’t been all that forthcoming. It quickly became apparent the man actually knew very little and was going to be hardly any use at all. But he’d given them one piece of information that had to be useful, because it was all they had. Lindisfarne.
Whatever Landvik wanted, apparently he believed he would find it on the Holy Island, and Crowley had to believe the man would keep Rose alive until then. So he prayed to gods he didn’t really believe in that he and Cameron wouldn’t be late.
“Lot of tourists.” Cameron nodded ahead at the line of cars under the gloomy skies.
Traffic had been heavy all the way through from the airport, the typical English jams repeatedly slowing them down. Now a single line of vehicles snaked ahead and off over the long causeway leading to Lindisfarne Island.
Crowley scowled. “Might be quicker to leave the car and jog across!”
“Might be, but it’s certainly not safer. The cars are crawling, but they’re moving. We’ll get there.” Cameron’s voice still had that edge of excitement Crowley had noticed before.
“Even slow moving traffic is more fun than sitting behind a computer, eh?”
Cameron flicked a half grin over, then turned his attention back to the car in front. “You’d be surprised how full on the intel game can be, even from a desk. And it’s not all staring at a screen, although there is so much data crunching involved. But yeah, getting out into the field properly again is pretty good fun. I’ve pulled a few days leave though, so I won’t be able to stay out long.”
Crowley grimaced, nodded ahead. “Let’s hope this is the end of the line and it all finishes here, today.”
“Here’s hoping. But I also hope there’s not too much action. Only two of us, so we’ll probably be outnumbered. I’d really prefer not to be killed.”
Crowley laughed. “Me too. But it’s the nearly being killed thing that’s so thrilling, right?”
Cameron flicked him another look, a little less amused this time.
Crowley waved one hand dismissively. “Seriously, though, I like our chances here.”
“Really? Based on what?”
“No one’s managed to do us in yet, have they?”
Cameron blew air out through tight lips. “Dude, everyone’s lucky until their luck runs out. That’s how it works.” He nodded ahead again. “Check it out.”
Crowley looked out to see a large white sign beside the road.
DANGER
HOLY ISLAND CAUSEWAY
It warned them to pay attention to the tide tables and safe crossing signs ahead. They passed another sign, bright red this time, with a picture of a large car half drowned by the incoming tide.
WARNING
THIS COULD BE YOU
PLEASE CONSULT TIDE TABLES
“Don’t muck around with their signage, do they!” Crowley said with a laugh.
Cameron nodded. “Yeah, but look how low the causeway sits. The water would cover it very quickly when the tide comes in. Can you imagine how many idiot tourists mess it up and get stranded every year? I read a thing that listed the costs of airlifting and sea rescues that happen regularly. Pretty crazy sums of cash.”
“No accounting for fools.”
“But we’re good for now. I checked earlier and we’ve got a while before the next tide comes in.”
They followed the slow-moving line of cars out onto the causeway, mudflats glistening on either side as the sun found occasional breaks in the pall above. Halfway down the mile-long causeway, a light drizzle spattered the windshield, despite the glimpses of sunshine and slices of blue sky.
Crowley looked to the north and saw a heavier bank of darker cloud that way. “Typical English weather,” he muttered.
“Four seasons in one day?” Cameron asked.
“Four seasons in one place! That looks like some big rain coming in.”
“Yeah, depends on the wind though. It is forecast to get heavier.”
Crowley quirked an eyebrow. “You checked that too?”
Cameron laughed. “Of course! Information is my business.”
“Even the weather?”
“Even the weather.”
The road began to wind along the edge of the island peninsula, grasslands off to their left. As they made their way into the small area of houses, Crowley said, “Not many people living here.”
“Only a couple of hundred or so, but it’s packed with tourists most of the time. Today is no exception, despite the rain.”
People walked everywhere, many strolling obliviously into the road causing cars to beep and brake. The tourists ignored the persistent drizzle, happily rambling around in brightly-colored raincoats or under wide umbrellas.
As they drove slowly into the small town, Cameron said, “It’ll be hard to spot Rose or Landvik in these crowds. We could walk right past each other and not notice.”
“Yeah, but I don’t think they’ll be taking in the sights. I’ve been looking through all the relevant information we’ve found, trying to figure out just what it is this Landvik is after. And honestly, I still don’t really have a clue. But as we’ve been led all the way to Lindisfarne, I can’t see them heading for any other place than the priory or
the castle. I reckon we start with the priory. It stands on the spot of a seventh century Anglo Saxon monastery, but was attacked by Vikings in 793. Given all Landvik’s return of the Viking gods stuff, I figure we at least start there.” He pointed up the road ahead. “That way.”
Chapter 43
Lindisfarne Priory, Holy Island, Berwick-upon-Tweed
Halvdan Landvik stared for a moment through the rain-spattered windshield, the ruins of Lindisfarne Priory standing ahead of them like broken teeth beyond the neater edifice of St Mary’s church. They were parked on a green verge, just past the last houses of gray-brown stone with slate or red tile roofs. To their right, the grassy slope fell away in a shallow decline to the water. To their left, the church, cemetery, and priory ruins.
“What is it about this place?” Landvik asked Rose without turning around. He knew she would answer. No doubt with some smart-mouthed quip.
“You tell me,” she said. “You’re the one who dug through my brain.”
Landvik pursed his lips. No more or less than expected. He would almost certainly have to do the ritual again, but he had nearly lost her the last time. Her experience of Aella’s pain had been something quite astounding to behold, though she seemed to not have a strong memory of those events now. Probably for the best if she was to retain her sanity. Perhaps if he gathered some more information, a few more points of relevance with which to conduct the interrogation, then maybe next time it would reveal more. There was nothing scientific about this occult methodology and that bothered him, but he had to play the hand he had been dealt. At least he had the girl now. If the next ritual killed her, well, so be it. He had no other choices at this stage.
He twisted in the seat to address the large man wedged in to Rose’s right. “Grigor, you stay here with her. She doesn’t leave the vehicle. We won’t be long.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You two with me.” Landvik opened the door and climbed out, knowing his men would follow. The crowd of tourists had thinned somewhat, now they had the chance to spread out across the island, but there were still knots of people in every direction. He headed up the road, tailed by the sound of gravel crunching beneath the shoes of his men as they followed.
A low stone wall, rough-topped with patches of moss, surrounded the ruins and the larger church that stood before them. They entered through a narrow wooden gate. Just to their right Saint Mary’s Parish Church filled the view, large sandstone blocks with three tall arched stained-glass windows, the tallest in the center framed by thick stone columns. Atop those columns was a bell tower, the silhouette of the bell itself stark against the pale gray skies. But, Landvik noticed, the pale gray was growing slightly darker. The soft drizzle that gusted through the air had begun to take on a heavier feel, as though it might at any minute turn into a downpour. No matter, he thought. That would match his mood. A cemetery surrounded the church and he gestured to the nearest of his men. “Search the graveyard.”
The man frowned. “What am I looking for?”
Landvik shrugged. “Anything, I don’t know. Runes, carvings of hammers, anything that might hint at something other than the obvious Christian history here. Just look.”
“Yes, sir.” The man moved away and Landvik led the other along a bitumen path between graves, heading for the old priory behind the church. At the end of the church they turned right and walked another path until they came to the front of the ruins. At their backs rose the end of St. Mary’s church, another tall, narrow stained glass window buried in the pale, irregular stonework. Before them was the entrance to the old priory, an arched doorway with rounded columns to either side. One square tower rose almost complete on their right side, but on the other it had all gone, leaving a ragged edge of reddish-gray stone. Beyond, high above the ground, curved the famous rainbow arch, a smooth, shallow arc of stones connecting two narrow, crumbling towers. The underside of the arch was carved with roundels, giving it the look of a strange row of too many teeth, upside down.
Landvik entered and began to stalk around, paying close attention to the walls and stones, trying to see something that might give some credence to their coming here. Some reason beyond the unreliable memories he had extracted from Rose Black. The broken down walls showed many places where double rows of stone left spaces in between, the kind of spot where any number of treasures might have once been concealed. Large archwork with thick brickwork columns, carved with worn chevrons for decoration, cast strange shadows in the wan, watery day. Landvik glanced up and winced as the rain began to increase as he thought it might. Several tourists with them in the space hurried away, presumably seeking the shelter of their cars or buildings in town. He would be glad to be left alone.
Landvik grew more and more impatient with every minute of the search. As he inspected the crumbled walls, it became apparent that anything concealed here was likely found and removed long ago. There were precious few places that something might still be hidden, save for within the remaining stonework. He could hardly start pulling bricks free and kicking the ruins to pieces, though as his impatience grew, the desire to do just that increased exponentially. Perhaps the hammer, if it were here, had long since been recovered and carried away. He paused, looked out beyond the ruins. Was he even in the right place? It seemed most likely, the seat of the island’s Christianity, first abandoned after a Viking raid in 793. The timing was right. But even if it were, did the hammer itself maybe lie elsewhere? Rose Black had identified Lindisfarne, she had muttered something about the Christian stronghold, so that had to mean this priory. But there were an awful lot of years between her memories and the present day. Things could be moved around all over the place, yet still remain on the Holy Island. Not to mention the possibility that Aella’s knowledge of the place, or his recollections, could have been wrong. The impotence of the searching began to infuriate him. Fear of failure rising, Landvik quickened his pace. If they exhausted every possibility, they would perhaps have to expand their search further. And he had to at least find something with which to target the next ritual with Rose Black. Something to trigger a usable memory.
Chapter 44
Lindisfarne Priory, Holy Island, Berwick-upon-Tweed
Rose watched Landvik and his men stalk off into the church grounds as the rain made rivulets on the car windows, growing heavier. People began to hurry out of the site, heading for their cars, grinning and making rueful faces at each other. Classic British stoicism in the face of awful weather. The only people looking truly annoyed about it were probably foreigners.
She looked down at her hands in her lap, wrists still bound tight with a black plastic zip tie. Despite her best efforts, she hadn’t managed to loosen it at all. All she had done was make a sore, red band around the outside edge of both wrists. Right now, she knew, was her best chance of escape. The effects of the ritual and whatever drugs she had been given were at their lowest ebb thus far. She wasn’t exactly clear-headed, but was as close to it as she had been in a long time. And only one goon sat with her in the car instead of four. Though he was a big goon. Grigor, Landvik had called him. The name suited him somehow.
She saw the slight bulge just under his left armpit, no doubt a shoulder-holstered pistol. She considered the possibility of disarming him, but thought perhaps that was pretty unlikely. And if she did escape, then what? It wasn’t like the place was crawling with police, though there must be some around the island, if she could only find them. She doubted any tourist would lift a finger to help her. More likely they would video her desperate attempt to escape and it would be on YouTube before the end of the day. But she had to try something.
She watched Grigor’s craggy square head for a moment as he stared mutely out at the increasing rain. After a moment she said, “Hey, Grigor.” He didn’t look around, didn’t even acknowledge he’d heard her. “Grigor? I need to pee.”
He huffed a grunt that might have been the beginning of a laugh. Without taking his eyes off the view outside he said, “Nice try.”
“Dude, I’m serious.”
“Go ahead. I have a baby at home, so it’s not like I’m not accustomed to the smell.”
Rose cursed him quietly, but loud enough for him to hear. He chuckled softly. She considered calling his bluff just for spite, but knew it would only cause her more discomfort. She didn’t doubt he would let her sit in her own piss and enjoy it.
She sighed deeply, angry and frustrated. There must be something she could do, some way to take a chance that had some possibility of success. Once the thug on her left side had got out of the car she had scooted over from the center of the back seat, buying herself some more comfort and leg room. It was a relief not to be pressed up against the solid bulk of Grigor any more. It also put her closer to the door. She surreptitiously cast a glance toward it, pictured in her mind how it would go to grab for the handle with her hands tied as they were. She imagined the process, a quick dive for the door release, pull it and drive her shoulder into the door and roll right out of the vehicle. She might hurt herself, but she was trained to break fall. She could hit the ground on her shoulder, sling her legs over to gain momentum to roll onto her upper back and then gain her knees, then quickly her feet. She pictured it again in her mind, imagined the roll and then a sprint out into the people heading back in the direction of town, holding her bound hands above her head as proof as she screamed about being abducted. So what if it ended up on YouTube, surely among all the people milling about in the rain, someone would help her. And Grigor wouldn’t pull his weapon and start firing in such a place. Would he? They needed her alive after all. Her heartrate increased as she quietly began to psych herself up for the bolt. She flicked her eyes back toward Grigor and her stomach fell.
