Viking

by Fabio

  At the edge of the surf was beached the tall Viking long-ship that would soon bear Ivar the Invincible's slain body to Valhalla. Dark, sleek, and powerful, its prow and gunwales beautifully carved, the ship gleamed with its snapping bright blue sail and gold figurehead of a Valkyrie. Next to the long-ship waited a powerboat onto which a grip was mounting the camera that would follow the Viking vessel out to sea. Facing the ship on the shoreline was a second camera on a crane, with the cameraman and assistant already in position on their perches and busy adjusting the lenses. Up on the cliff, a third camera was mounted on a helicopter that waited to take off.

  Marcello had already spent hours this morning in makeup and wardrobe before getting last-minute instructions from Irving. But the brisk, wet wind threatened to undo all the fine work of the makeup artist, hair stylist, and wardrobe mistress. Marc's thick hair whipped about his ceremonial helmet and shoulders, his blue silk tunic billowed around his torso, and the gold brooches of animal figures that held the garment together were already tearing gouges in the fragile fabric. His prop sword snapped in its sheath against one legging-clad thigh. To add to the frustration, Marc and Irving had to shout to hear each other over the roar of the waves.

  Irving gestured nervously toward the prop and special-effects technicians who were making final preparations for the funeral pyre on the longship. "Marc, I wish you would give up this insane decision to film the burial scene yourself. It's still not too late for us to substitute a stuntman. I'm worried about those waves, and the flames could easily rage out of control in this wind."

  "If you want to feel truly safe, we needn't film the launch to Valhalla on the ocean at all," Marc pointed out smugly. "Vikings usually launched slain warriors by setting their halfships aflame in burial pits."

  "So we're dealing with Mr. Authentic again, are we?" Irving snapped. "Where's the excitement in a burning burial pit, I ask you?" Abruptly, he grinned. "But this time I got you, kid." Cupping a hand over his mouth, he yelled, "Script assistant!"

  A thin, harried-looking young man rushed up with the script in hand. During filming, Marc had become acquainted with Chris Stennett, a graduate student in anthropology hired as a production intern to help the script supervisor and the set and costume departments ensure the authenticity and continuity of the historical props and costumes from scene to scene.

  "Yes, sir?" Chris asked, adjusting his glasses.

  Irving jerked his thumb toward Marc. "Inform our superstar that the launch to Valhalla is authentic."

  Stifling a smile, Chris pulled a notebook from his back pocket and began flipping through it. "Hi, Marc. Let's see, I have all those details written down here somewhere. Ah, yes ... in Norse mythology, Balder, god of light, was slain by an arrow through the heart, and he was launched on the ocean in a burning boat."

  "Ah, but Balder was launched to Hel, not Valhalla," Marc pointed out.

  "I give up," said Irving in disgust.

  Meanwhile, Chris was grinning. "Yes, you're right there, Marc. But that's not all I've discovered through my research. There was a King Sigurd of Sweden and also a King Haki of Norway who embarked for the afterlife in this same manner—as well as a Norse king, name unknown, who had his men launch him to Valhalla on the ocean in a burning boat, right after he was mortally wounded in battle."

  Marc nodded. "Very good. So there is ample precedent. I like it when we all do our homework. But you have no name for this Norse king?"

  "He was Viktor the Valiant, of course," Irving put in slyly, and all three men laughed.

  Chris turned to Irving. "Actually, sir, I must commend you on the authenticity of your props and costumes. I've found most everything to be accurate, except for the horned helmets worn by the warriors in the battle scenes. You must understand that those were used mostly for ceremonial occasions."

  At this comment, Marc shook with mirth, while Irving yelled good-naturedly at Chris, "You're fired, kid!"

  As the white-faced young man glanced at Marc, he quickly reassured him. "Don't worry, Chris, Irving doesn't mean it. He just hates being wrong."

  To Chris, Irving added, "Yeah, and get the heck out of here before I change my mind! Good grief, I'm surrounded by experts!"

  Chuckling, Chris dashed back to his place near the script supervisor.

  "Didn't I warn you about those horned helmets, Irving?"

  Marc chided, adjusting his own. "They are going to ruin us yet."

  Ignoring the comment, Irving was scratching his jaw and scowling at the longship. "I'm still worried about you being strapped down in the midst of those flames."

  "No problem," Marc assured him. "The special-effects supervisor told me the fire will never get within two feet of my precious flesh. You just concentrate on getting all the camera angles right so it will look like I'm being consumed by flames. With three angles in the shoot, I just don't see how we can miss."

  Irving grimaced at the brooding heavens. "Unless it starts raining and we have to cancel before we can get a wrap."

  Marc glanced upward. "At least with all these dark clouds, it will be easier for the special-effects people to make the cliffs look like basalt."

  "What the hell is basalt?"

  Marc grinned. "Volcanic rock—it's what Iceland is made of. Didn't you know that Iceland was created from volcanoes that spewed ashes and basalt up from the ocean floor?"

  Irving waved him off. "Whatever."

  Marc stared at a flock of passing birds. "You may have some difficulty making those gulls look like puffins—unless you dress them in tuxedos, of course."

  "You just watch your ass in that boat and remember we start filming Fort Laramie in June," Irving responded tersely.

  Watching the uptight director rush off to consult with the sound mixer, Marc shook his head. He spied Monica off to the side in her gold Viking dress; the hairdresser was trying to smooth down her blond locks, despite a lack of cooperation from the recalcitrant wind.

  Marc stepped over to join them. "You can't make her any more beautiful than she already is, Gretchen," he teased the stylist, winking at Monica.

  "You're probably right, Marc—and, anyway, I give up," the exasperated woman replied. Then with a cry of dismay, she darted after a helmet that had sailed off the head of one of the extras.

  "Alone at last, angel," Marc murmured. "Are you ready to bid your proud warrior the proper tearful farewell?"

  As he reached out to smooth down her hair, Monica smiled tensely. "You will be careful today, won't you?"

  "Have you been listening to Irving stewing about the scene?"

  She glanced around. "I don't have to. The wind, the waves—the fire. I know it must be very dangerous."

  He shrugged, then smiled. "You know, as a tribute to a slain warrior, 'Vikings used to sacrifice a slave girl, then launch her to Valhalla in the longship, beside the fallen fighter. You're still welcome to come with me."

  "Do I sense an olive branch being extended?" she asked.

  "Maybe."

  She stared at him wistfully, then shook her head. "Oh, Marc. You want me to come with you, but on your own terms. A sacrificed slave girl would suit your retrograde instincts just fine.'"

  "So I'm still this caveman type you keep referring to?" he asked darkly.

  She looked him over and sighed. "And damned appealing in spite of it—or maybe because of it. I just know it would be a shame to change you."

  He stepped closer and whispered huskily, "Then you're not volunteering to come with me on my next voyage of discovery?"

  "I can't, Marc," came her tremulous response.

  They stared at each other for a long, anguished moment; then he brushed a tear from her cheek with his thumb. "Try not to cry too much for Ivar, angel. It will ruin your makeup."

  She bit her lip. "Marc—"

  "Yes?"

  "After the cast party, I'm planning to go home and pack my things."

  He frowned. "Is that really necessary, Monica?"

  Her face mirrored resignation and r
egret. "Yes. Otherwise we'll just be postponing the inevitable. I need to get on with my life, and you need to go find that right girl who can give you what you want and need"—she paused, braving a smile—"on your next voyage of discovery."

  Marc cupped her chin in his hand. "I've already found her," he whispered intensely. "But she isn't ready for me."

  They stared at each other poignantly, only to jump apart as an assistant director yelled, "Places, people! Now!"

  Watching Marc frown and turn to start off, Monica touched his arm. "Can we at least part as friends?"

  He assumed a pleasant expression. "Sure. No hard feelings. Shall I shake your hand?"

  "Will you kiss me?" she asked plaintively.

  With a groan he complied, hauling her soft body close and kissing her lips so passionately, so thoroughly, that soon some of the crew began hooting taunts in the background.

  "Hey, Marc, save it for the Valkyries in Valhalla," yelled a grinning Chris.

  The two moved apart, both smiling self-consciously amid all the curious eyes focused on them.

  "Break a leg, handsome," Monica said, her voice strained and hoarse.

  He fondly touched the tip of her nose. "Break their hearts, angel. After all, you always do. Especially mine."

  He turned and walked away. She almost called after him, then stopped herself.

  With the wind still whipping about him, Marc held onto his horns and strode over to the longship, where the special-effects technicians were finishing up and gathering their gear. "Are you guys going to barbecue me today?" he asked drolly.

  "Don't say that, Marc, it's not funny," replied Stan, the special-effects supervisor.

  Chuckling, Marc climbed inside the ship, which the prop people had already piled high with the typical bounty a Viking warrior took with him to Valhalla—food, ale, jewels and riches, weapons and implements. He moved toward midships and lay down on the narrow funeral bed lined with animal hides. A grip strapped him in, hiding the bindings beneath his tunic.

  Closing his toolbox, Stan instructed Marc urgently, "Just remember, the mixture we've used for the fire is in a special reservoir running along the inner perimeter of the bulwark. It will ignite when Monica and the extras apply their torches."

  "Then I'll become a human hot dog?"

  Stan glowered. "You'll be far away from the flames. And besides, you know damn well this compound produces little heat or smoke—"

  "You mean I won't roast like a marshmallow or need to wear a gas mask?"

  "Knock it off, Marc. Like I said, it ain't funny. You may smell a little smoke or feel a little heat, but basically, you'll be okay. Believe me, our entire special-effects department worked overtime to make this funeral pyre a fail-safe design. With all the fireproofing we've done, it's highly unlikely that the boat itself, or the sail, will become engulfed in flames before shooting is finished."

  "I'm greatly reassured," rejoined Marc dryly.

  "We'll be in the boat right alongside you with the cameraman. If the wind or the waves get too wild, we'll intervene immediately with the fire extinguishers. And we'll be there to put out the fire before you know it."

  Marc nodded solemnly. "Fine, guys. Despite all my joking, I have to compliment you on doing such a conscientious job."

  "Sure thing, Marc. Break a leg."

  The technicians left. Hearing the commands of the first assistant director preceding the take, Marc concentrated on relaxing. As he and Irving had already decided, he knew he need not get "into" Ivar's character this morning, but should instead focus on effecting a proper death trance. He took deep breaths, let soothing images of clouds drift across his mind, and centered his thoughts on remaining utterly calm and still. Distantly, he heard the shouts of director and crew, the low roar of the powerboat motor, the buzzing of the helicopter as it took off overhead. Nearby, a bell rang and a slate snapped shut.

  Along the shoreline, an assistant yelled, "Action!" Marc heard the extras weeping, and knew from previous rehearsals that Monica and the others were coming forward for the funeral ceremony, some with lighted torches, others bearing gifts for the gods that they began piling into the stern of the longship. The low chanting of their prayers told him the moment would soon come for them to launch him.

  He heard Monica's tearful voice cry: "Farewell, proud warrior." Then flames hissed around the prow, and he knew the torches were being applied. He felt the extras pushing the ship out onto the waves.

  With eyes still tightly closed, Marc could hear Monica's wails of grief, the cries of the extras, and the sizzle of the flames. He could feel the warmth of the fire around the bulwark, and the mighty waves tilting and buffeting the ship. The technicians had been right, he realized. This was almost pleasant. There was some heat, but the smell was far from overpowering, and the roller-coaster motion of the vessel was strangely soothing. He relaxed even more deeply and felt himself drifting off to sleep. Soon, he thought distantly. Soon the others would awaken him ...

  Suddenly Marc jerked awake, gagging on smoke. Feeling flames lick at his feet, he fumbled frantically with his bindings, somehow managed to unstrap himself, and jumped up, gasping for breath and choking on curses. Blackness enveloped him from all sides—except for the ship itself, which now resembled a blood-red, raging inferno!

  Where on earth was he? Why was the ostensibly "fireproof ship suddenly burning like the flames of hell, and where were the technicians to put out the blaze?

  Totally disoriented, Marc gazed around him. It was truly night, the wind was howling like a demon, and he illogically felt both burning hot and freezing cold. Everything was different—frighteningly different. The longship was emitting thick clouds of black smoke that choked off his breathing, and monstrous flames were gorging their way toward him at midships. He looked up in horror to watch the entire sail ignite in a burst of red right before his eyes!

  Marc had no additional time for observations. Realizing he would be consumed next, he coughed out a quick prayer, leaped through the flames, and dived into the ocean with a mighty splash. Had he not been immersed, he would have shouted from the shock of landing in water more frigid than the bottom of an ice bucket. Struggling against cramping muscles and a powerful undertow, he surfaced, shuddering violently and gasping for air. Frosty oxygen stabbed his starved lungs like slivers of ice. He battled the powerful currents, knowing he could not survive long in the subarctic water—

  God in heaven, where was he? What had happened to him?

  Then, like a miracle, the smoke cleared ahead of him and he spotted a murky shoreline just beyond. Among outcrop-pings of black rock loomed people with lit torches emblazoning the night. Of course—it must be Monica and the extras! He swam desperately toward them, growing weaker with each stroke against icy, turbulent waves. His entire body felt numb from his struggles. After what seemed an agonizing eternity, he was able to stagger out of the surf, shivering fiercely—

  At last Marc was afforded a closer look at the group on the beach. What was this? All of these people were strangers, dressed in alien-looking costumes of wool, flax, and leather! The air remained as frigid as the ocean had been.

  Then Marc blinked as he spotted ice caps in the distance. Ice caps? Basalt rock? Dio del cielo! Had he landed somewhere in Scandinavia? But that was impossible, wasn't it?

  He began to tremble in earnest.

  "King Viktor!" cried one of the strange men. "You are alive after all, our faithful jarl!"

  King Viktor? Why in hell did this man call him King Viktor? As he watched in bewilderment, the bizarre group, which seemed to number over fifty, rushed toward him. Many fell to their knees, amid weeping and exclamations of joy.

  "King Viktor! Thanks to Odin for returning you to us!"

  "Our leader has come back from Valhalla reborn!" cried another.

  "The gods have surely blessed our jarl with a bite from one of Idunn's rejuvenating apples!"

  Marc, teeth rattling and body heaving from the cold, remained mystified. Where was he, an
d who were these demented characters babbling on about Odin and Idunn's apples? Did these idiots actually believe he was Viktor the Valiant, returned from Valhalla? Had the cast and crew played some kind of joke on him?

  "What in hell is going on here?" he demanded.

  Even as he spoke, the strangers shrank away in fear and stared off into the distance.

  "Wolfgard!" one cried.

  "The berserkers have returned!" yelled another.

  "Get the women and children back to the village!" shouted a third.

  Pandemonium broke loose. The women and children fled screaming into the black night, while the men drew out broadswords, spears, and axes, then advanced menacingly toward Marc.

  He was horrified. "Holy Mother, save me!" Wild-eyed, he began backing away.

  The men appeared flabbergasted by his retreat. "Jarl! You are going the wrong way! Come fight with us!" cried one of the warriors.

  "In that way lies death!" warned another.

  Hearing harrowing battle cries behind him, Marc whirled and understood what the men had referred to. A hundred yards beyond them along the shoreline had landed a mighty Viking dragon ship. And a huge tribe of ax-wielding, sword-swinging, arrow-shooting barbarians was swarming onto the beach, heading straight toward him!

  FOUR

  “King Viktor! Lead us, we beseech you!"

  "Help us, or we shall perish!"

  Hearing die pleas of the warriors behind him and watching the barbarians continue to swarm off their ship with its figurehead of a fire-spitting dragon, Marcello had no more time for hesitation. Whether he was on earth, in heaven, in hell, or a thousand years back in time, he did not know. He only knew that these people needed him—his people needed him. And in that moment—for that moment—he became their leader. Relying strictly on instinct, he unsheathed his sword and led the charge.