Viking

by Fabio

  'To battle, men!" he yelled and leaped forward, his clan of warriors close on his flanks.

  An arrow whizzed by Marc's cheek as he and his followers ran forward to confront the invaders. In the distance, he spotted a silver-haired, bearded giant leading the opposition.

  Within seconds, the warring parties collided. The impact was horrendous—broadswords banged against shields, arrows pierced chain mail, and cries of agony rent the air. Marc got his first taste of battle as a huge, bearded marauder loomed before him.

  "Die, son of Hel!" the warrior cried, wielding his broadsword high over Marc's head.

  Marc raised his own weapon to block the blow—only to feel the rubber sword buckle like a kite in a wind. A look of horror gripping his features, he just managed to lunge aside before his assailant's weapon would have split open his skull. He winced as he heard the broadsword thud into the earth.

  Meanwhile, his adversary was laughing—actually laughing! "Viking, you carry the toy of a child!" he scoffed.

  Marc realized the man was right. The sword he had brought with him from location was no match for an actual Viking warrior's iron broadsword! Dio, this was no movie! He was back in real Viking times, with no more than a movie-set understanding of the challenges he faced!

  Further thought was postponed as Marc watched the aggressor heave his broadsword back like a baseball bat and prepare to lop off his head! Santa Maria, this character was becoming a nuisance! And only a brilliantly timed duck kept Marc from becoming King Viktor the Headless! Knocked off-balance by the failed blow, his opponent staggered, appearing baffled by Marc's foil. Marc seized the advantage, delivering a stinging kick to the groin that sent the man dropping to his knees with a shout of pain.

  Shivering and gasping for breath, Marc glanced around to reconnoiter the action. The battle was a nightmare scene, like something out of Dante's Inferno. Spears flew, lethally sharp arrows screamed through the air, and warriors hacked at and bludgeoned one another with swords and axes. Worst of all were the sounds—the crash of weapons striking, the moans of torment, the harrowing shouts of bloodlust that seemed to rise straight from the madness of hell.

  Then suddenly, amazingly, Marc spotted Monica swinging her battle-ax in the distance! At first he was certain his eyes had deceived him—but no, it was truly she!

  "Monica!" he cried.

  If she heard him, she made no sign, but continued to do battle with a ferocious, huge warrior. He stared at the tall woman in fascination. She was Monica, all right, complete with sleek body and long blond hair. Yet she was dressed not as a Viking wife but as a Valkyrie, in chain-mail tunic, short, tight leggings, and iron helmet.

  Was she a Valkyrie? Had he arrived in Valhalla after all? The possibility was unnerving, electrifying. Still, his heart welled with joy at the sight of her.

  Marc worked his way toward the woman, dodging arrows, spears, and swords. At last he loomed in her path. "Darling! I am here!" he cried.

  The woman turned to him, at first shrinking back and staring at him as if she had just seen a ghost. Then her lovely features twisted with rage and indignation. "Viking!" she screamed. "How dare you return to torment us! How dare you call me beloved! I hate all Vikings!"

  And then she raised her huge battle-ax high over his head!

  Dio, what madness was this? Had Monica lost her mind? Was everyone else here a crazed maniac as well? Were they all obsessed with carving him asunder?

  Watching the terrifying ax begin to fall, Marc leaped back. The weapon narrowly missed him, chopping into the ground with a sickening clunk. Enraged, the Valkyrie who so resembled Monica yanked and grunted until she had heaved her ax from the frozen earth. Then she swung it high and charged at Marc with a bloodcurdling howl.

  This time, Marc was almost too horrified to react. In the nick of time, two of his own company lunged between him and the Valkyrie, with disastrous results. The warrior woman sliced the sword from one man's grip, almost hacking off his hand in the process, then chopped her ax into the shield of the second. On her smooth, powerful upswing, she bashed Marc on the side of his head with the flat of her weapon. Marc reeled, seeing stars as the two warriors collapsed, groaning, at his feet.

  Marc could only stare, stupefied, at this unholy terror who appeared to be both Monica's twin and her antithesis. Then— horror of horrors!—the Valkyrie wielded her ax high one more time and aimed straight for his head!

  Mercifully, a voice in the distance yelled, "Retreat!" Just as Marc jumped out of range, the Valkyrie lowered her battle-ax and grinned at him. "We meet another day, Viking!" she said. "I will anticipate once again the pleasure of slaying you." She whirled around and raced with the others back to the dragon ship.

  Trembling violently, Marc collapsed to his knees, pressing a trembling hand to his throbbing temple. For the moment, he felt too stunned even to think.

  'Marl, we have won the day!"

  "You have helped us repel the berserkers!"

  Marc stared incredulously at the group of two dozen or so warriors looming over him. Most of the men were of medium, stocky build, fair and heavily bearded, and dressed in iron helmets, chain-mail byrnies over leather tunics, dark leggings, and soft leather boots. In the background, several other men were gathering the wounded onto travois. One of the younger men came forward and draped a coarse woolen blanket around Marc's trembling shoulders.

  "Where in hell am I?" he managed to grind out As a horrifying possibility again dawned, he added, "Don't tell me this is Valhalla?"

  The men roared with laughter.

  "You jest, jarl," said one burly fellow. "You well know that this is your island, your kingdom of Vanaheim."

  "Vanaheim? Are you sure you don't mean Anaheim?"

  At his astounded query, the warriors glanced at one another in puzzlement

  Then a second man explained. " 'Twas to Valhalla that we launched you tonight, jarl. But now you have returned from the dead to save us from Wolfgard's treachery in our hour of need."

  Before Marc could comment, another voice shouted, "Yea, you have brought great triumph for the people of your clan! May all pay tribute to King Viktor!"

  Utterly mystified, Marc watched most of the warriors sink to their knees around him, make weird signs with their hands, and start droning a chantlike litany. Good Lord, had he landed in a lunatic asylum?

  "What are they doing?" he asked the burly one.

  "Swearing fealty to you, jarl," replied the man as he, too, knelt and followed suit.

  Watching the mumbling, gesticulating group, Marc was flabbergasted. These people thought he was their king? At the moment, he didn't feel equal to being king of the clumps of seaweed still clinging to his leggings!

  "Good Lord, I can't believe this is happening!" he muttered as the chanting stopped. "I must have lost my mind!"

  The large man stood. With a puzzled scowl, he inquired, "Mayhap you mislaid your wits in Valhalla, jarl."

  "Mayhap your ordeal by fire and the rigors of returning from the dead have befuddled you," suggested another.

  "Now wait just a minute," snapped a very disoriented Marc. "You say we are on Vanaheim?"

  "Yea, jarl."

  "Where in hell is Vanaheim?"

  Again the men laughed. "By ocean, two days south of Iceland, jarl," said a voice from the ranks.

  "Iceland?" Marc could not believe his ears. "How in God's name did I end up in ..." He paused, his temple throbbing, the pain unleashing a new wave of confusion. "What did I just call it?"

  "Vanaheim," provided a helpful voice.

  "Yes. Vanaheim."

  "Do you not remember, King Viktor?" asked the burly man. 'Ten winters past, you and Eirik the Red were outlawed from Iceland. Eirik sailed north to discover Greenland, and you took the sea lanes south to Vanaheim."

  "/ left Iceland with Eirik the Red?" Marc repeated in a stupefied voice.

  "He was your kinsman, jarl."

  "Are you guys kidding me?"

  The men stared at one another un
comprehendingly.

  "Did Irving hire you to play a joke on me?"

  More baffled looks followed; then a voice called out, "We know nothing of this Irving, jarl. Did you encounter him in the hall of the dead?"

  "Good grief, what is happening to me?" Marc cried, clutching his head, which was splitting with pain and uncertainty.

  He gazed at the dark, alien landscape—the tundra, the moors beyond, the ice-capped mountains in the distance. Heaven help him, this was no joke! He was definitely not in California anymore!

  He ran a hand through his drenched hair and groaned. "Unless someone has engineered the most Machiavellian hoax in all of history, I think I have just been flashed back in time a thousand years."

  "What did you say, jarl?" came a perplexed query.

  "Do you suppose it had to do with my being launched to Valhalla like Viktor the Valiant?" he muttered to himself.

  "So at last you remember who you are?" someone asked eagerly.

  "Not exactly," grumbled Marc.

  "Jarl, we must get you back to your hall," said the large fellow. "Wolfgard could return, you are wet and trembling, and you will surely catch your second death if you remain here." Sheepishly, he added, "And verily, jarl, although I. mean no disrespect, your mind is not as it should be."

  "No kidding," quipped Marc.

  One of the warriors stepped forward. "Yeah, jarl, Orm has spoken the truth. Take my cloak."

  Marc was too cold and exhausted to argue as the man slipped a smelly, shaggy wool cloak over the blanket. With his help, Marc heaved himself to his feet.

  "Which way?" he asked, starting off to his left.

  The warrior grabbed his arm to restrain him. 'To the north, jarl. You are heading toward the west, where the great fjord lies."

  "Oh." Pivoting and proceeding with the others in the direction he presumed was north, he asked, "Are we safe now?"

  "Yea," answered the one named Orm. "Wolfgard and his forces have retreated across the fjord. We left behind several warriors to stand as sentries should he return."

  "Who exactly is Wolfgard?"

  "The leader of the clan that attacked us."

  Marc mulled over this, remembering the battle. "Ah, yes. You mean the huge fellow with the silver beard?"

  Orm grinned, displaying crooked white teeth. "So you remember, jarl. Five summers after our tribe settled here, Wolfgard also was outlawed from Iceland. He sailed here and settled across the fjord with his people. There has been a blood feud between our tribes ever since."

  Marc tried to digest all this, then asked carefully, "Who was the woman with him?"

  "His stepdaughter, Reyna the Ravisher."

  "The Ravisher?" Marc said:

  "We call her the Ravisher after Ran the Ravisher, the sea siren who lures brave Viking warriors to Hel," explained Orm. "Reyna hates all Vikings."

  "So she informed me," Marc remarked ruefully. He frowned. "But if she hates all Vikings, why does she ride with a Viking clan?"

  A man directly behind them explained. "Reyna is a French captive, jarl. Years ago, she and her mother were kidnapped by Wolfgard's forces and brought to Iceland. Wolfgard did Reyna's mother a great honor by making her his bride instead of his concubine—and thus Reyna became Wolfgard's stepdaughter. But the female has always been a hellion, nevertheless."

  "She despises Wolfgard and all his people," said Orm. "Methinks she tolerates her own tribe only because to attack them would mean her death."

  "Smart girl," muttered Marc.

  "Instead, the Ravisher now wreaks her vengeance on us. She is an ogress, that one, and for years has tried to kill you, King Viktor."

  She wanted to kill him? Oh, Lord, Marc thought. He hadn't gone to Valhalla. Like Balder, he had been launched in his burning boat straight to Hel!

  While Marc continued his trek over the tundra with his new companions, Reyna the Ravisher huddled against the mast of her stepfather's ship, mulling over the last few moments and her bizarre encounter with Viktor the Valiant. As the only woman allowed to fight with Wolfgard's forces, Reyna did not normally leave a battle feeling this shaken, but tonight had been quite different. In some ways, she felt as confused over her brief moment with Viktor as he had seemed during the episode. Why had he greeted her with that strange word, "Darling," followed by, "I am here!"? What had possessed her enemy to speak to her in such a familiar manner? Despite her show of bravado, Reyna had felt jarred by the very sight of him, and somehow seared by his words—

  For she knew something about Viktor that the others of Wolfgard's company did not yet know. Although for most of her life the main focus of Reyna's existence had been revenge against all Vikings, Viktor's strength and bravery had secretly intrigued her. Even as she had battled him, she had also watched the enemy jarl closely during Various raids Wolfgard had led against his clan. Earlier this eve, when Wolfgard had attacked Viktor's tribe for the first time, Reyna had noted the rival chieftain growing weaker during the battle, and she had presumed he was near death when Wolfgard had at last ordered the retreat. Later, her curiosity getting the better of her, she had returned to the enemy beach alone to see if her suspicions would prove true. From a safe distance she had watched Viktor's tribe launch him to Valhalla in a burning boat—and she had felt far more affected over his death than she ever would have dreamed.

  By the time Reyna had navigated her small boat back up to Wolfgard's wharf, her stepfather was gathering his forces for a second surprise attack on Viktor. Why Reyna had not immediately informed Wolfgard of Viktor's demise, she did not know. Mayhap 'twas due to the confusion of launching the second attack, or because she despised Wolfgard and felt no true sense of loyalty to either clan, or because she feared her stepfather's warriors might guess of her longtime, secret fascination with Viktor. Whatever the reason, Reyna had kept her peace—

  Then they had launched the second attack, and Reyna had discovered that Viktor still lived! Either that, or he had returned from Valhalla a god! Was he truly a god now? Although Reyna was a Christian, she held a healthy respect for the pagan traditions. Verily, in some ways Viktor had seemed a different man in their second encounter—clean-shaven and far more beautiful than she had remembered, especially when he had smiled at her with such fierce joy and devotion—

  Reyna shuddered at the memory. The very sight of him had sent a powerful shiver straight through her, and had spread throughout her soul a sense of dawning recognition—almost as if she were seeing him for the first time, yet somehow already knew him. How could such contradictions be, unless he was a deity now?

  'Twas a puzzlement. Indeed, at the time, Reyna's confusing, traitorous response, had prompted her to fight her own feelings by attacking Viktor viciously. She had summoned every iota of her hatred and rage toward all Vikings. Yet she had not been able to bring herself to kill him, and even now she felt too overwhelmed by the encounter to share what she knew with the others.

  No matter. If the idle talk she oft heard from her stepfather's warriors was true, Wolfgard had a spy in Viktor's camp, a traitor who would soon inform the chieftain of his enemy's "resurrection." In the meantime, Reyna was determined to learn more about this new, baffling Viktor, but only so she could defeat him with due haste, and never again have to deal with such perilous feelings ...

  FIVE

  Marc and the small group of Vikings trudged across the frigid, windswept tundra, beneath the glittering stars of a vast, black heaven. By now a thousand questions were bombarding Marc's overburdened mind. What had happened to him back in the present? Had he been killed in the stunt and somehow become reincarnated into the past? By being launched to Valhalla in the tradition of Viktor the Valiant, had he sailed through some mystical door in time to dock in the real Viking world? Had Viktor the Valiant even existed back in the Dark Ages? How he wished he could remember, from his brief conversation with Irving and Chris, whether Viktor the Valiant had been real or simply a legend. And how he wished he could utter that classic, comforting line, "This is only a movi
e." But unfortunately, he had just been in a movie that had now become frighteningly real—and yet jarringly different from the fantasy in which he had starred.

  And what of this Reyna the Ravisher, who seemed the physical reincarnation of Monica, but evidently had no awareness of him? True, she had appeared shocked when she first spotted him in the battle, but that might have been because she presumed he had just returned from the dead. Why was she here? Was she really Monica in disguise, playing some sort of game, or did she truly not know him? Marc suspected the latter, and he remained stunned that this bloodthirsty vixen was determined to dispatch his soul to the Viking Hell. It was almost as if God had decided to play a gigantic joke on him.

  Despite his confusion, one thing he did know—and again instinct came into play. For whatever reason, he was no longer Marcello. He had jumped back into the life of another man, perhaps even an ancestor of his. Now he was Viktor the Valiant, a real Viking chieftain living in real Viking times and involved in a real—and very dangerous—war with a neighboring clan. Intuition also argued that he must not tell these people of his former identity or whence he had truly come. They would assume he was deranged and might even kill him. In fact, for the sake of his own safety—and sanity—it might be best if he started thinking of himself as Viktor, their king and leader.

  Marc—now Viktor—felt his thoughts grow fragmented as a distant motion danced across his peripheral vision. He glanced off to the east to note three dark wolves stalking them, their hulking forms outlined by the full moon. To his horror, even as he stared at them, the beasts perked their ears, growled, then broke into a run—heading straight toward him!

  Alarmed, he turned to the others. "Wolves—we must hurry!"

  His men only laughed.

  The wolves howled like fiends and raced across the tundra, swiftly closing the distance.

  "They're attacking! Run for your lives, men!" Viktor yelled.

  He leaped into a run, and it took him a moment to realize he was the only one fleeing—that his men were still laughing in the background! Were all these people lunatics? Had they no regard for their own safety? He lunged on, fighting agonized muscles, heaving frigid breaths into his lungs—and all the while the monstrous beasts were charging closer and baying like demons!