The Dream of the Iron Dragon

by Robert Kroese

  Gabe coughed once more.

  While Reyes was talking to Gabe, Sigurd and Braggi had started walking to the northeast.

  “Wait,” Reyes said. Sigurd turned, frowning at her. “Shouldn’t we return to the bridge?” She pointed in the direction Agnar and Njáll had gone.

  Sigurd shook his head and said something she didn’t understand. He pointed to a hill about half a klick away. Reyes understood: if Gabe was still in the area, they might be able to see him from atop the hill. But their path was going to take them uncomfortably close to the lander site. Reyes moved in front of them, holding up her hands. She shook her head. “No. Nei. Danger. Poison.”

  Braggi looked ready to brush past her, but Sigurd put a hand on his shoulder.

  Reyes made a sweeping motion, indicating they should make a wide arc around the lander site. Sigurd nodded, and she led the way. The wind was steady from the south, so the risk from fallout was minimal. By this time, the plume had mostly dissipated; the only sign of the explosion was a roughly circular area of brown, muddy ground, about three hundred meters in diameter. In the middle of it, barely visible at this distance, was a crater that appeared to be about fifty meters wide. The only remnants of the lander were small bits of metal and other debris that lay scattered across the field. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Braggi reaching down to pick up a shiny fragment of steel.

  “No!” Reyes shouted, running toward him. Startled, Braggi backed away. “Do not touch,” Reyes said, shaking her head. It was impossible to know without a Geiger counter how badly contaminated the metal was, but it probably was not safe to touch. Cleaning the metal would remove the radioactive particles on the surface, but radiation from the explosion would have made the metal itself radioactive to some degree. It was probably inevitable that these chunks of metal would eventually make it into weapons and other tools, but the longer they waited, the better.

  “This way,” she said, continuing her march across the plain. If she kept them moving, they might be less likely to investigate the debris. Reyes scanned the plain in both directions as they walked, but saw no sign of Gabe or anyone else. Reyes led them up the hill where they could overlook the blast site. Her comm chirped as she neared the top. It was Slater.

  “Reyes, you there?”

  “This is Reyes.”

  “What’s happening? We heard something like an explosion.”

  “Yeah, that was the lander. Gabe triggered a meltdown.”

  “What? Why?”

  “No choice. I’ll explain later.”

  “Is Gabe alive?”

  “Yes. Trying to find him now. How’s O’Brien?”

  “About the same. Resting.”

  “Okay. I’ll comm you again when I know more.”

  “Copy that. Slater out.”

  Reyes continued up the hill, joining the others who were already looking over the plain. The extent of the destruction was stunning. There was nothing left of the lander but a smoking hole in the ground. The crater was almost perfectly round, at least ten meters deep. The ground was scorched and barren for a good eighty meters out from the crater, and the snow had vanished from a vast ring around the scorched area. The bare area was devoid even of fragments of the lander; the nearest pieces lay in the snow at least two hundred meters away. Other than the corpses of dead Norsemen, there was no sign of anyone else in the area.

  A faint voice came over her comm.

  “Gabe?” she asked. “Is that you?”

  The voice spoke again. It sounded familiar, but it wasn’t Gabe. The man was shouting in the Norsemen’s language. Two gunshots sounded a few seconds later. Then the channel went dead. She tapped her cuff. “Gabe,” she said. “Gabe, come in.” There was no response.

  Reyes turned to Sigurd. “Agnar and Njáll,” she said. “They found Gabe.” She pointed southeast.

  Sigurd asked her a question, which she didn’t understand.

  She held up her hands. “I don’t know any more than that. I heard gunshots.” She pantomimed shooting a pistol and tapped her ear.

  Sigurd regarded her for a moment and then spoke briefly to Braggi. They set off down the hill, toward the southeast. Reyes followed. They traveled for nearly an hour, with Reyes trying every few minutes to contact Gabe. She still got no answer. Sigurd slowed, holding up his hand, and Reyes drew her pistol. Two men approached: Agnar and Njáll. She put the gun away.

  The five Norsemen conferred briefly together. Sigurd turned to her. “Gabe alive. Mit Gunnar.”

  “He’s with Gunnar? How the hell…?”

  Sigurd shrugged. “Bátr. Svelvig.”

  “Gunnar’s taking Gabe south on a boat. To Svelvig.”

  Sigurd nodded.

  So Agnar and Njáll had caught up to Gunnar and tried to stop him, but Gunnar had gotten away, taking Gabe downriver in a boat.

  “We should follow?” Reyes said, pointing to the southeast.

  Sigurd shook his head. “Engin Bátr. Brú.” He pointed the direction they had just come.

  It took Reyes a moment to understand: they had no boat, so they’d be unable to get across the river to Svelvig. They would have to backtrack to the bridge. Reyes cursed under her breath. That was why Sigurd had waited to go after Agnar and Njáll. He suspected this might happen.

  Reyes nodded and gestured to indicate that Sigurd should lead the way. She was exhausted; they all were. It was now afternoon and she’d had three hours of sleep over the past two days. The Norsemen had been up almost as long, and they didn’t have the benefit of chemical stimulants. If they could keep going, she would as well. She popped another of the pills and went after Sigurd.

  It took over an hour to reach the bridge, which was a narrow but sturdy construct of pine logs surfaced with planks. They crossed the bridge and continued south for another hour. She continued to occasionally try to raise Gabe on the comm, without success. By the time they finally stopped, Reyes was barely aware enough of her surroundings to put one foot in front of the other. By some miracle, she managed to avoid tripping and falling on her face. If she had, she doubted she’d be able to get up again.

  Sigurd directed them off the trail toward a hidden vale near a frozen creek bed. Reyes stumbled toward a rotting log covered with snow and sat down. She closed her eyes, resting her head on her arms.

  Some minutes later, she awoke with a start as someone put a hand on her shoulder. After a moment of panic, she realized it was Sigurd. He was pointing to a bedroll near a fire that Braggi was tending. She nodded and Sigurd wordlessly guided her to the bedroll. Agnar and Brynjarr were already lying on their own bedrolls, snoring peacefully, while the others tended to the camp. She lay down and fell asleep.

  Reyes was awoken by snowflakes falling on her cheek. It was dark, and the others were still sleeping. One man—she realized after a moment that it was Brynjarr—was standing guard, facing the trail. She got up and walked toward him. The air was cold on her skin, but the flight suit kept her warm.

  “Brynjarr?” she said, and he turned to face her. He was leaning on the shaft of a spear, but the pistol was still in the holster on his belt. Reyes patted her own pistol. “I can take watch.” She pointed to herself and then to where Brynjarr was standing.

  Brynjarr shook his head. He pointed to his mouth and then toward the fire. Reyes’s stomach growled at the thought of food. How long had it been since she had eaten?

  She went back to the fire, found her pack, and opened one of the meal packets. While she was eating, Sigurd cried out in his sleep. His eyes opened and he looked around in confusion for a moment. When he realized where he was, he sighed heavily and stared at the heavens for some time. Big flakes of snow continued to drift slowly down, obscuring the sky. Reyes looked away, focusing on the fire.

  Sigurd said something to her, and she saw he was pointing at the keg of ale Njáll had been carrying. She shook her head. Apparently these people drank beer all day and night, but it was a little early for her. She would have killed for a cup of coffee, but she wou
ld have to settle for sucking on clumps of snow.

  Sigurd sat up and stared into the fire for some time. The look of determination had left his face; Sigurd now looked sad and lost. He looked much older than he did when she’d met him—only yesterday! But as she watched, the mask came back over him. He stood up and barked an order to the others. His tone was firm, not angry, but Reyes could see now the deep sadness that drove him. She wondered if he would get his vengeance, and if he did, whether it would help.

  The men began to stir in response to Sigurd’s order. Once they had woken up and relieved themselves, they set about packing up for the day’s travels. Braggi kicked the logs apart, letting the fire die. The men’s faces showed little but tiredness. They had lost people too, she knew. Brothers, sisters, parents, friends. Probably none of them had really come to terms with their losses yet. They merely plodded along, trusting Sigurd to lead them out of this somehow.

  Did they blame her? She wondered. She hadn’t sensed any hostility from the men, but to some degree they must hold her and her crew responsible. Whatever quarrel they’d had with Harald, it had been the crash of the lander that had brought them into direct conflict. And as many of Harald’s men as Gabe had killed—a hundred? More?—she doubted it evened the scales in their minds. Maybe they just hadn’t had time to process everything yet, but at some point they would. If she wanted to survive the next few days, she was going to have to remember that despite the Norsemen’s cooperation, their motivations were not her own.

  They set out again on the trail before dawn, Sigurd leading them in the near-darkness. When the sky began to lighten, Reyes found that they were now on a path overlooking the river, to their left. The snowfall had abated, but she figured the crash site must have gotten two centimeters of snow. That was good news for any living things in the region: the snowfall would help settle any radioactive material in the air and cover any irradiated materials scattered across the plain. In a few weeks, the debris might be safe to handle. The wind continued to blow from the south, carrying any remaining fallout away from the more densely inhabited areas.

  An hour or so after dawn, Sigurd veered off the trail, leading them up a rocky embankment. Reyes didn’t protest; if Sigurd had wanted to explain what they were doing, he would have—and she would be unlikely to understand him in any case. She focused on keeping her footing on the slippery rocks, following a few paces behind Sigurd. The others followed single-file behind her.

  They climbed for perhaps twenty minutes, eventually coming out on a small, rocky plateau. Snow had begun to fall again, limiting visibility, but it was clear why Sigurd had selected this vantage point: on the other side of the plateau was a high hill overlooking the river. At its summit was a formidable wooden building surrounded by a spiked palisade. It had to be Harald’s fortress.

  “Holy shit,” Reyes said, gazing at the massive structure in the distance. “That’s where they’re holding Gabe?” It looked impenetrable. Even with a hundred men, they wouldn’t be able to get Gabe out of there.

  Sigurd nodded. “Nótt,” he said, and then made a gesture like something going over a barrier. “Niht.” He’d used the latter word before, when talking to Gabe.

  Reyes stared at him. He couldn’t be serious. “You want to wait for nightfall and then climb over the fence? That’s… suicidal.” She was saying it more as a sanity check than to communicate with Sigurd.

  “Men dead,” Sigurd said, pointing in the direction of the blast crater.

  “Yeah, okay,” Reyes said. “They’re short on men. But if there are even a dozen inside that thing….” She was no expert on combat, but she felt fairly certain that if Gabe were able to talk, he’d tell her this was a terrible idea. They had superior weaponry, yes, but the pistols were loud. Any advantage they gained from stealth would be eliminated the first time one of them took a shot.

  Sigurd spoke an instruction to Agnar, who spoke a few words back, nodding his head, and then took a couple steps toward the precipice. The discussion apparently over, Sigurd led the rest of them back down the rocks. He found them a flat area sheltered from the wind and instructed Braggi to get a fire going. He sent Njáll and Brynjarr off on some task, presumably to gather firewood. The others set up camp and then sat around the small fire Braggi had started with the kindling he’d been carrying. Njáll and Brynjarr returned not much later, carrying an impressive amount of wood. Soon they had a pleasant fire going. The men ate and joked and told stories, and Reyes did her best to follow along.

  Around noon, she heard Agnar shouting down from the plateau. He was beckoning toward them. Sigurd got to his feet, spoke a few words to the others, and then started up the embankment. No one else got up. After a moment, Reyes went after him.

  When she reached the top, Agnar and Sigurd were standing at the edge, looking down toward the valley floor. Coming up beside them, she saw the focus of their attention. Several people were on the road that wended alongside the river, heading north, leading two pairs of oxen pulling carts. Reyes saw now that the road snaked back and forth along the hillside across from them, terminating at the entrance to the palisade. Whoever these people were, they were headed to the fortress.

  Sigurd and Agnar had another brief exchange, after which Sigurd hurriedly climbed back down the embankment. Reyes followed him. When they reached the camp, he stopped and turned, holding up his hand. His meaning was clear: wherever he was going, Reyes was not to follow. She wanted to argue, but lacked both the words and the energy. She sighed and returned to the fire as Sigurd walked away.

  He was gone for almost an hour. When he returned, Reyes saw renewed determination on his face. He approached the fire and spoke for some time with the other. Reyes understood none of it except the name “Harald.” When they had finished talking, Sigurd turned to her. He paused for a moment, as if trying to come up with the right words. He pointed toward the road and then put his index fingers next to his forehead, indicating horns.

  “Oxen on the road,” Reyes said. “Got it.”

  “Oxas,” Sigurd said, nodding. “Oxen.” He pointed to his mouth.

  “Eat the oxen?” Reyes asked, confused.

  Sigurd frowned at her, not understanding. He stood up and walked slowly away from her, hunched down with his hands clutched at his shoulder, like a man dragging something. “Vagn,” he said.

  “Wagon,” Reyes said. “Like a cart. Oxen pulling a cart. There’s food on the carts?”

  “Food on the carts,” Sigurd repeated. Then he spread his arms wide.

  “Lots of food,” Reyes said. “Much food.”

  “Much food,” Sigurd said. He walked toward her again, his legs splayed apart and his chin thrust out, holding his hands to indicate a large belly. “Harald.” Several of the other men laughed and clapped at the impression.

  Reyes stared for a moment, trying to understand. “Much food… for Harald? A feast? Harald is coming here?” She pointed in the direction of the fortress. Sigurd nodded. As he did so, Brynjarr walked past, carrying a bundle of dead twigs toward the fire. Sigurd slipped behind him, wrapped his left arm around his neck and held his right thumb under Brynjarr’s jaw. Brynjarr yelped and dropped the firewood.

  The meaning of Sigurd’s presentation was beginning to sink in. “Oh, God,” she said. “Oh my God. You want to kidnap the King of Norway.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Gabe awoke in a dimly lit room, lying on a hard wooden bench. The air was cold, and wind whistled through timbers around him. He sat up and looked around. The floor seemed to be hard-packed dirt; the walls were pine logs. The only light came from small cracks in the ceiling. His gun, sword, and wrist cuff were missing, along with the three rolls of solder he’d stuffed into the flight suit.

  As he got to his feet, pain surged into his head. Where was he? How had he gotten here? Putting his fingers on his cheek, he found dry blood. Memories began to return.

  Gunnar had marched him south to the river, where he’d had stolen a rowboat from some poor fisherman.
Gunnar had held his sword to Gabe’s back, forcing Gabe to row the boat. They’d just pushed off shore when Njáll and Agnar emerged from the woods, pointing their pistols at Gunnar and yelling at him to stop. One of them had fired and Gabe had tried to duck out of the way. The next thing he knew, something had struck him hard on the temple. A massive bruise had already formed, making his skin feel hot and tight. How long had he been unconscious? An hour? Longer? Was this Svelvig?

  While he was straining at the locked door, he heard voices approaching outside. He stepped away as the door opened. A man with a short sword at his side strode in. Behind him was Gunnar, his left arm in a sling. The first man barked an order at Gabe. When Gabe hesitated, he drew his sword and motioned for Gabe to get up. Gabe got to his feet.

  Gunnar followed as the guard escorted Gabe down a hallway lit by torches in wood sconces to a much larger room. A fire burned in a large stone fireplace at one end. Standing in front of it, staring into the flames, was a fat, bald man whose left leg ended in a wooden peg. The guard escorted Gabe to him. Gunnar came to stand beside him, while the guard waited behind Gabe, with his sword drawn.

  Gunnar spoke to the fat man, and the man turned his face toward them. Gabe saw now that he was much older than his bearing indicated. His balding head was shorn to stubble and deep creases in his face suggested he was in his seventies. He held something in his hand. A gun. Gabe’s gun. Gabe’s momentary fear dissipated as he remembered the gun was unloaded and there wouldn’t be any place to get ammo for it for a thousand years.

  “Hvat es þetta?” asked the man.

  “Gun,” Gabe said.

  “Gun,” the man repeated. He pointed it at Gabe and pulled the trigger. As the action clicked, Gabe winced involuntarily. Gunnar chuckled.

  “Not loaded,” Gabe said. “No bullets.”

  “Bullets?”

  Gabe held out his hand. The man regarded him skeptically for a moment and then handed him the gun. He felt the point of a sword in his back. The fat man held up his hand.