The wound was foul with the stench of infection by the time I reached my client’s residence on the outskirts of Paris. A normal man would have perished long before, riding night and day on horseback.
But I was a stubborn bastard, and kept going until my bones were ready to give out. When I felt weary or ready to pass out, the familiar thump of Woden’s Spear along my back would remind me of my code.
I had agreed to do a job.
And I would do it.
If nothing else to keep my honor.
But, more than anything, it was to keep it from Isabella and Marrack. I disembarked from the horse, who gave me a disgruntled and weary sigh.
Argos wriggled free from the saddlebag at the side, and promptly vomited in the middle of the vineyard. The aroma of sour grapes covered the bile dripping from my torso, but not by much.
The vomit didn’t help, either.
Like a drunk, the border collie tottered on his feet sideways, crashing against my legs.
“Don’t do that,” I said through gritted teeth, lashes of pain knifing through my torso.
“You need a doctor.”
“To bleed me?” I gave a laugh. Bold move, and not the right one. My eyes watered, and I almost had to sit down.
“I meant a supernatural apothecary.”
“I’ll be fine. Just stay here while I check it out.” After hiding Woden’s Spear in the saddlebags, I limped forward, toward the villa at the vineyard’s edge. Despite being nighttime, no candles burned within the chambers.
It gave me a foreboding feeling.
I knocked at the door with much effort.
My client made no answer. I tried the lock, and the door was left open. Stumbling inside, I found the place had been abandoned in a hurry. A half-eaten cut of mutton lay atop a plate, maggots and flies feasting upon the food.
Silently, I went through the villa, room by room.
He had simply vanished.
I headed back outside, eager to move on.
“A funny thing, ja?” The voice spoke French tinged with a Germanic accent. I searched about the grapevines for the speaker.
I couldn’t see him.
But I felt his aura.
Vamp. Strong, but not overpowering. A couple hundred years old, most likely. Maybe pushing three centuries. If I spotted him first, I could torch him.
Otherwise, in my weakened state, it could be a hell of a fight.
“Show yourself, vampire.”
“You are not from around here either, I see.”
A man stepped forth from the rows of grapes. Tall, broad-shouldered, with flowing blond hair. He looked every part the Viking or Germanic conqueror. His movements were smooth, measured, and he wore clothes fashioned of the finest materials.
They accentuated his powerful form, the shirt dipping at his neck to reveal a muscular chest.
I tensed, sensing a significant threat.
He planted himself between me and the horse, his ice-blue eyes analyzing me with detached curiosity.
“You are injured, my friend.”
“Perceptive,” I said. “I’ll be going now.”
“Do you know the fate of the man who lived here?”
I stared at the vampire, trying to determine whether it was a threat or a genuine question. Finally, I said, “I do not.”
“He owes me gold.”
“Not my problem.”
His ice-blue eyes flashed, not with anger but the realization of opportunity. “I sense a strong aura about you, my friend.”
“I’m not your friend.”
He shrugged, cool as ever. “But your friend owes me, so perhaps it is the same.”
Hunched over and barely able to run, I had few options. A direct confrontation was unlikely to end well. Which meant that I really had to play ball.
I held up my hands in surrender and limped over to the vampire.
Extending a hand I said, “Kalos Aeon.”
“Gunnar.”
“We have a deal,” I said. “You get me something to treat this wound, the horse and whatever trinkets I have in the bundle are yours.”
“And the saddlebag?”
I whistled, and Argos popped his black and white head out. Giving him a nod, I said, “The dog talks a lot.”
The vampire barely blinked. “I have no use for pets.”
“I’m more than a pet,” Argos said, ears standing on end.
Gunnar made a move to take his haul. I grabbed him by the forearm, and his fangs unfurled.
“You bring the healing potion, then you get paid.”
“I could just take it, my friend.”
“And then you would have to fight a demon.”
An awkward, tense silence ensued. A brisk wind rustled through the vineyard’s grapes.
Then Gunnar shrugged, and without saying anything sped off.
I breathed a sigh of relief and grabbed the saddlebag. Argos cracked his neck in disgust.
“It’s cramped in here with the spear.”
“Lucky the bag is big enough for the both of you,” I said. “I could’ve bought the small size.”
He growled. “And do you trust him to keep his word?”
“We’ll find out.”
An hour later, after I had hidden the spear safely, Gunnar returned, stopping before the horse suddenly. The steed reared up in protest at the disturbance.
“The aura is different, Kalos.”
“Maybe I’ve gotten weaker.” I was crouched on one knee, breathing heavily.
“It is not that.” He handed me a small glass vial. I drank from it greedily without asking what was inside. “Perhaps you have held out on me.”
“You’ll get paid well all the same.” Hathus’ men had more than enough gold and magical trinkets to satisfy a vampire. Of course, that meant I was going to be broke for the next month.
But if you live forever, what’s losing one fortune?
Gunnar peeked beneath the blanket covering the bundle of items.
“It is impressive.” He stepped forward. “Perhaps we can work together.”
I saw gold and hedonism dance in his cold blue eyes. But no thirst for power or bloodlust. Strange indeed.
“I’ll consider it.”
“If you are ever in Paris, my friend.” He pressed his palm against mine and gave my hand a firm shake. “It has been a pleasure.”
“I’m sure.”
Gunnar mounted the steed and kicked off, even though he could run faster than any horse. I touched my abdomen, the wound already receding.
Argos emerged from the thick vines.
“Strange for a vampire.”
“Indeed,” I said.
“You think he is a man of his word?”
I stood, my legs no longer unsteady. The question required no reply. Somewhere within my soul, I had a suspicion that I would do business with the vampire again.
But for now, I had to guard the spear.
10
I ran the rough tip of my finger along the edge of the iron blade. The Viking blacksmith stared at me, awaiting my appraisal. He nodded, his horned battle helm casting fearsome shadows against the wall. Had I been mortal, I would have offered him an immediate positive review. Instead, I ran my fingertip along the point again.
“It should draw blood immediately,” I said in their tongue, having finally learned it. Argos sat patiently in the corner of the longhouse, near the roaring fire.
The great man gave me a funny look. “It is not for cutting nails.”
“No,” I said, a vicious look in my eye, “it is for slaying demons and fulfilling one’s destiny.”
The blacksmith paused for a moment before returning to the forge. With a massive hand, he beckoned for the iron sword. I obliged, and he began hammering and working on its killing ed
ge once more, so that it would be perfected for the task ahead.
The marks on the wall indicated the year of the Viking calendar. In time, it would come to be known as the year 979 A.D. But for me, I knew it had been five centuries and three more long years since I had been tossed into the sea. For now, today was simply the day of reckoning.
As Marrack had promised, I had survived the long plunge into the water with my faculties fully intact—although sometimes survival was worse than the alternative. And so, over the next centuries, I borne a single mission: prevent him from acquiring Woden’s Spear and banish him from the face of the Earth—thus getting my revenge.
The spear was safely hidden away, now. Safe from prying creatures. Gunnar, Charon, even they did not know I possessed it.
And, based on perpetual rumors of Isabella and Marrack’s dogged search, neither of my foes realized the spear was mine. Even without it, their reign of terror seemed almost absolute.
I walked over to Argos and sat down, feeling the heat from the hearty blaze.
“Charon was right,” he said in a low whisper, so that the blacksmith wouldn’t realize a talking dog was here. “A drunk, but right.”
“The world is more chaotic than one could imagine.” The light of civilization dangled over the precipice. Advances were made, only to be reclaimed by the darkness of illiteracy, factional war and ever-present plague. The structure of the empires of antiquity had crumbled, leaving behind a world more vicious than the gladiatorial arenas of Rome.
“It won’t recover immediately,” Argos said. “Civilization may never recover.”
“I have faith in people,” I said, with neither faith nor conviction. The aura of the world, even when I stumbled upon a supernatural being, was one of hopelessness and despair. A demon’s overbearing mark, even if hidden in the shadows, would do that.
He growled quietly. “It’s not your fault.”
“What did I do to her?” I said, feeling my heart constrict within my chest. “It must’ve been something.”
“People change,” Argos said. The words sunk in, and we waited in silence. “And they can be corrupted.”
Hours later, the blacksmith returned with the blade. He offered it to me without comment. I pressed my finger against the edge. This time, blood trickled down the iron, down to the dark hilt.
I smiled without mirth, and rose. Taking a pouch from my belt, I dropped it on the longhouse’s table.
“This is too much,” the blacksmith called after me as I stepped into the frigid wind with Argos by my side.
I trudged forward, not looking back.
Where I was headed, money would not be required.
*
Befriending the great hawk Vedrfolnir had not been a simple task. It had taken many centuries of careful study and trust building. Perhaps friendship was the incorrect word for our uneasy truce. But he understood in his feral heart that I loathed Marrack as much as he. And although cut from some of the same cloth, I was much different.
Good thing, too. I had grown sick of feeling his diamond-crusted talons rake against my skin.
Likewise, it had taken many years to build an ember of hope in the frozen north. Erik the Red was preparing a voyage to a new world previously unmarred by mankind’s presence. This was the type of discovery that could propel mortals forward—the aggressive expansion once the hallmark of Rome, Greek, Persia and the civilizations of old.
Keeping the light alive in the frozen wilds had not been easy. As an immortal half-demon, your direct presence can only be seen so much through the centuries. But, little by little, the Vikings emerged and had garnered a reputation. And with a reputation, as I well knew, came notoriety and legend.
And such stories would reach Marrack’s ears, sending him into a blind rage. He would be intent on destroying any feeble light of civilization that he could. Rumors had come of villages to the south being destroyed.
I trekked in the snow alongside Argos. The sun blazed overhead, but it didn’t affect the arctic chill. By this point, the temperature hardly bothered me. All that mattered was the mission. Perhaps I was performing this duty as a gift to the mortals. Or maybe I did it only because Charon had instructed it be done.
A harsh cry sounded above. Vedrfolnir dove down, landing in our path. His angry yellow eyes bore through me, carrying a message I couldn’t understand. I nudged Argos, who growled.
The hawk answered with a shrill cry. This back and forth continued for some minutes, Vedrfolnir growing more animated. At one point, he beat his wings so hard that the border collie ran behind my legs to escape the wind. I stood shivering until the maelstrom subsided.
Then the conversation concluded with a gruff cry, and Vedrfolnir majestically soared into the sky, disappearing over the horizon.
“What was that about?” I asked, when the hawk was out of earshot.
“He says many villages are burning.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“He has spotted Marrack. Our plan is off.”
My blood boiled. “He has lost his stomach?”
“No,” Argos said, sneezing as we walked through the shin-deep snow, “Vedrfolnir has said that he will murder the Demon King and have his vengeance for Ragnarök.”
“You explained that we need to banish Marrack, right?”
“He said that such a punishment was no punishment at all.”
“He agreed,” I said.
“He does not honor agreements with demons,” Argos said. He cocked his head at my unamused expression. “His words, not mine. Verbatim.”
“Shit.” And here I thought I had emotions that were wont to run out of control. “Did he mention Delphine?”
She had saved me from Marrack before, when my guts were exposed by his murderous rage.
Argos nodded. “She arrived on the southern shores yesterday.”
“At least that part of the plan is in place.”
Argos paused, his ears shooting straight up. “There is one more thing, Kal.” A long pause. “She has come with him.”
I trudged forward, not answering.
“What will you do?”
A lovesick pain shot through my chest. “Whatever needs to be done.”
The rest of the journey continued in silence, accompanied only by the shrill song of the frozen wind.
11
“Wait in the forest,” I said to Argos. Thick black smoke hung in the frozen distance a few kilometers off. The closest thing to a city in this northern tundra was on fire. Marrack and Isabella were seeking to stamp out Erik the Red and his Viking cohorts.
The bait had been set. Now I was to complete the task, just as Charon had instructed me more than five centuries prior. Things happened slower in those days. The world was a simpler place.
Or perhaps life was the same as it always had been. Vicious, cruel and brief.
“I’m coming with you, Kal.” Argos walked ahead, out from the shade of the birch trees. It resembled the place where, almost two thousand years before, I’d left him to search for Isabella. Looking around, it was possible it was the same forest, many years on.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry from the icy wind, and looked down at the snow-mottled dog. Fear danced in his eyes, but his heart was made up.
“Don’t get yourself killed,” I said, walking past. “That’d be a real tragedy.”
“Don’t plan on it.”
Unlike the last time I had visited, the battle still raged when I reached the wooden gates. Its hinges had been blown askew by some sort of projectile. In an age where arrows were the most potent long-range weaponry available, and siege engines were impossible to transport across the ice, it was clear who had been responsible.
“Watch out for witches,” I said, with a tingle of anticipation.
Many years of preparation had gone into this scheme. Gri
tting my teeth at the roar of a hawk in the distance, I reminded myself that, by nightfall, I would find out if my efforts had been successful.
“Let’s go, then,” Argos said with false bravado.
The frozen paths inside the gates were stained red. Most of the felled soldiers were citizens of the town, bearing Nordic features indigenous to the region. The few dead on the opposing side were suntanned women, hair streaked gold by calmer, sunnier regions.
I crouched next to one of the dead and reached into a pocket stitched in her tunic. A piece of amber tumbled out, slipping past my frozen fingers onto the bloody ground.
“The Thrace Coven,” I said. Their symbol hadn’t changed since Isabella had usurped Filippa and taken control. A merchant ship was etched into the back. This time, however, the bug trapped inside was a mosquito instead of an ant.
I chucked the chunk of amber into a smoldering building and then stepped over the body. Argos walked gingerly around, trailing behind me as I trekked through the ruined town’s streets. We met occasional resistance—from both witch and Viking—but all were too weak for the well-honed blade and sheer weight of my determination.
Blood dripping from my hair, we reached the longhouse at the town’s center. Strains of battle sang out around us—blades clashing, spells flying through the air, shouts of surprise and anguish. Argos’ ears were flat against his skull by the time we reached the sloped-roof structure. Unlike many of the others, it was still standing, and was neither ablaze nor half collapsed.
Its door, however, was slightly ajar, indicating someone had paid the chief an unscheduled visit. Hopefully he had escaped. Not really my problem, though.
I glanced at Argos and smiled grimly. “You ready for this, bud?”
“I guess I—”
A massive shriek drowned out his reply as Vedrfolnir dove from the sky, his massive wings streamlined against his beautiful, perfect body. At the last moment, his talons shot out, tearing a massive hole in the roof. The hawk then circled around and readied himself for another shot.
Within the longhouse, I heard a mellow voice scream, “You, get after this goddamn Erik the Red while I deal with the bird.”
Another vicious cry from the bird drowned out the response. But I had confirmation that Marrack was inside—as if Vedrfolnir’s feverish, maniacal assault on the central building wasn’t enough. Getting caught in that battle wouldn’t be pretty. And besides—if Vedrfolnir slashed Marrack’s throat wide open by some stroke of luck, that would be an acceptable outcome.
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