Gabe carefully ejected the magazine and handed it to the fat man. “Empty,” he said. “No bullets.”
The man nodded, seeming to understand. He took the gun back from Gabe and slide the magazine back into place. He grinned and shook his head as it made a satisfying click. “Hvar bullets?” he asked.
Gabe shook his head and spread his hands.
Gunnar spoke briefly to the fat man. The fat man nodded and turned back to Gabe. “Ek em Ragnar Ivarsson,” the man said, holding out his hand.
Gabe stepped forward and clasped the man’s hand, trying to hide his excitement. Was it possible this man was the legendary Ragnar Loðbrók? There were certainly plenty of Ragnars in the region, but given the man’s obvious importance, it seemed like a definite possibility. A warrior named Ragnar figured prominently in Nordic sagas and poetry, but historians had never settled the matter of whether Ragnar was a real historical figure. This man was about the right age; According to this traditional literature, Ragnar distinguished himself by many raids against Francia and Anglo-Saxon England during the ninth century. Perhaps this man had conducted these raids under the authority of Harald and then returned to Norway, whereupon he was given a cushy job overseeing this fort as a reward for his service.
“I’m Gabe. Gabe Zuelsdorf.”
Ragnar nodded. “Hvaðan ertu, Gabe?”
“I come from another land,” Gabe said. “Far away.” He still wasn’t sure how to answer this question. Even if he spoke Ragnar’s language, any answer he gave would be incomplete and misleading. Did the Norsemen even have a word for “planet”? In their mythos, Earth was “Midgard,” the place between Asgard and Hel. He wondered what reaction he would get from Ragnar if he told him he hailed from Asgard, the home of the gods. It was probably as accurate an answer as he could give, but he thought it better to play it safe for now.
Ragnar asked him a question he didn’t understand. When Gabe didn’t respond, Ragnar repeated a word, pantomiming something falling from the sky and hitting the ground. Obviously Ragnar had been briefed on the crash—maybe had even witnessed it himself.
Gabe nodded, seeing no point in lying. “Ship,” he said, imitating Ragnar’s gesture. “Crash.”
Ragnar held out his palm again, as he’d done a moment ago to indicate the land into which the ship had crashed. “Land mitt,” said the man. “Skip mitt.”
Gabe said nothing. Ragnar’s meaning was clear enough: the land where the ship crashed belonged to him, so the ship belonged to him too. And Gabe had destroyed it. In Ragnar’s mind, Gabe had stolen from him—which was apparently a bigger concern than the hundred-something men Gabe had killed.
“Gun. Bullets. Silfr. Skip,” Ragnar said. “Mitt.”
Gabe spread his hands helplessly. “Gone,” he said. “There is only one ship.”
Ragnar nodded thoughtfully. He spoke to the guard, who handed him something: one of the rolls of solder Gabe had saved from the lander. As Gabe watched, Ragnar unrolled several centimeters of the solder. “Silfr,” he said.
Gabe nodded. “Silver.” He wasn’t actually sure of the composition of the solder. He knew it was at least fifty percent silver. The rest was probably zinc, tin, or some other inexpensive metal. Still, it would be very valuable to the Norsemen, even if they couldn’t separate out the other metals—which was why he’d salvaged it. “Yours,” he added.
“Meira silfr?” Ragnar said.
Gabe shook his head. “That’s all there is. There may be more metal scattered across the plain.” He did his best to pantomime the explosion and pieces falling to the ground.
Ragnar seemed displeased with this. He asked another question.
“I’m sorry,” Gabe said. “I don’t understand.”
Ragnar asked the question again: “Hversu margir?” He pointed to Gabe, then gestured as if counting on his fingers.
Gabe swallowed hard. He knew now what Ragnar was asking. How much did Ragnar actually know? Was this a test? Gunnar must have briefed him already, but Gunnar had never seen anyone but Gabe. And the rest of the crew was gone when the attack began. He shook his head and held up one finger, then pointed to himself. “Me. Alone.”
Ragnar glanced at Gunnar, who shook his head. Ragnar gestured. Before Gabe knew what was happening, his legs had been kicked out from beneath him. The guard’s sword was at his throat.
Ragnar knelt down in front of him, placing his finger under Gabe’s chin to make Gabe look at him. He asked the question again, counting off on his fingers. “Hversu margir?” Einn? Tveir? Þrír?”
Gabe shook his head again. “Just me,” he said. “Alone.”
Ragnar sighed. Gunnar laughed.
A boot struck the side of Gabe’s head.
*****
Harald Fairhair sat astride his horse, deep in thought as his procession advanced up the snow-covered road. There were six men on horseback in front of him and another six behind—brave and sturdy men all, wearing the finest chain mail and carrying swords at their sides. They had been traveling since dawn, visiting towns and fortifications all along the coast, and hoped to reach the fortress before nightfall. Harald had much to do, but if there was any truth to what the messenger had said, this would be time well spent. The only thing that mattered was the task he had set out for himself.
Harald couldn’t help but smile at the thought. There had been a time when those around him would have laughed at the idea of a unified Norway, if he’d dared speak it aloud. Now that possibility seemed within his grasp—and if what the messenger had said was true, it might come even sooner than he had imagined.
A metal ship, falling from the sky. He’d never heard anything like it, even in the stories of old. His mind boggled with questions: where had it come from? Where was it going? Who were its crew? Gods? Men? Dwarves? Giants? Some other race entirely? Could they be made to see things Harald’s way? If not, could they be killed?
But dreamer though he was, Harald remained above all a practical man. Putting aside whatever wonders might be aboard the ship, imagine employing such a craft in battle! The mere sight of it, soaring across the sky like a giant metal dragon, would cause brave men to quake and run. He supposed that such a craft would take skill to pilot; perhaps he would need to keep the crew and press them into service. But the messenger had said the ship was badly damaged; it might well be beyond repair. Even so, its value was incalculable. If it really was made from steel, how many swords could be forged from it? A thousand? Ten thousand? Harald pictured his bodyguards wearing plates of steel, as some Frankish knights did. Norsemen in such armor would be unstoppable! And that was to say nothing of the weapons the messenger had said the foreigner wielded. Three of Gunnar Bjornson’s men killed before they could even raise their spears! The messenger, a young man named Leif, claimed to have seen it with his own eyes. Leif remained imprisoned at a fortress in Vestfold, where Harald’s party had spent the prior night. He would be tortured and executed if he’d been found to be lying or even exaggerating, but his account had remained remarkably consistent under interrogation, and by all accounts he was a trustworthy young man, devoid of treacherous motives.
It was now late afternoon and they were nearly in sight of the fortress, which served these days mainly as a garrison for Harald’s troops. Since he’d consolidated his holdings in the north, silver had been flowing consistently into his treasury, and he’d found it advisable to keep several hundred men on retainer, to be dispatched to the more troublesome areas as he or his jarls saw fit. The strategy had borne fruit over the past several years: he would dispatch emissaries—often men with local ties, like Gunnar—to sell the villagers on the wisdom of a shared defense, using the threat of violence as an additional incentive. Many of the communities on the coast remained stubbornly independent, but their independence could be used against them: their failure to create strong alliances with neighboring villages made it easy to isolate and crush them.
The fortress could house as many as two hundred men in a pinch, but generally fewer
than a hundred were stationed there at any given time. According to Leif, some seventy men had been there when the ship crashed, and another sixty were due to return shortly from a campaign in Vestfold. He assumed by now that his forces had taken control of the ship, but it was odd that he’d received no news since Leif’s initial report. Surely the force Gunnar had led to the ship had been sufficient to take it and subdue the crew? Leif had seen only one man, but he’d been clear that the ship was big enough to hold several more. If there had been a dozen or more armed with the sort of weapon Leif had seen, it was not inconceivable that they could have defeated the entirety of Gunnar’s force. That would explain why no more news had been forthcoming: all of Gunnar’s men were dead or captive. The thought was unsettling. Harald had become used to the idea of being able to overwhelm his enemies with superior numbers. In his haste to investigate, he’d dismissed a troubling possibility: perhaps no number of Norsemen were a match for the foreigners.
If that were true, then Harald himself was in danger. He considered for a moment the possibility of turning around and returning to his well-guarded lodge to the southeast. But this would mean only a temporary reprieve. If Leif’s words were true, then his fate lay with the foreigners, one way or another. Cowardice would not fulfill his ends. He would seize their ship or die in the attempt.
It was not long after he made this decision that the man in the lead of the expedition, Fritjoff, stopped his horse and held up his hand. He turned to bark an order at the others: there was a man ahead on the trail, blocking their way. Fritjoff and the second man, Gustav, would investigate while the others protected Harald.
Fritjoff and Gustav rode their horses slowly around the bend. Harald heard voices, but could not make out what was said. Two loud cracks, like thunderclaps, followed. Harald’s horse reared up onto its hind legs, whinnying in alarm. Several of the other horses followed suit. Harald managed to get his horse under control, but a new wave of panic swept over them as the horses Fritjoff and Gustav had been riding galloped madly around the corner toward them. There was not enough room for them to pass, and for a moment all was chaos as horses reared and whinnied, throwing several of Harald’s men to the ground. Harald kept control of his own mount for several seconds, but he saw that it was a lost cause. Once they got turned around, the horses were going to bolt, and he was not about to flee from whatever lurked around that corner.
Harald leaped clear of his horse, landing hard on the packed snow and rolling aside. The horses, several of them still carrying their riders, were now galloping away from the fortress. Harald got to his feet. Only three of his men stood with him. They moved toward him, drawing their swords and turning to face the trail ahead. Two men stood in front of him and one behind. Harald drew his own sword.
A man walked slowly and deliberately around the corner. He was burly, with thick brown hair that was beginning to turn gray. A sword hung from his belt, and in his hand he carried something made of dull gray metal. He pointed the object at Harald.
“I am here for the man who calls himself King,” the man said. “The rest of you are free to go.”
None of the men moved. Nor would they—these were Harald’s personal bodyguard, loyal unto death.
“Kill him,” Harald said, more as an answer to an unasked question than an order.
The two guards in front advanced toward the stranger. The stranger pointed the object first at one, and then at the other, releasing two more thunderclaps. One man fell to the ground, gasping and clutching his chest. The other staggered backwards, holding his left shoulder. Blood ran down his arm, dripping on the snow-packed path.
Who was this man? Harald wondered. He looked and spoke like one of the villagers from the southeast, but he wielded a weapon like the one Leif had described. Harald’s anger bubbled up inside of him. What gave this man the right to interfere with Harald’s destiny? Harald ran toward him, raising his sword over his head.
The burly man pointed his weapon at Harald, but Harald did not falter. If he was his fate to be cut down by this man, then so be it. He did not recognize this man’s right to possess this weapon—much less to threaten him with it. He had not become the ruler of most of Norway by allowing such insolence to go unanswered.
Harald was nearly on the burly man when another person—a woman!—darted out from behind the rocks toward the man, shouting something at him in a strange language. She didn’t reach the stranger in time to keep him from using the weapon, but she distracted the man long enough for Harald to take a step to his right. The weapon boomed again, tearing into the sleeve of Harald’s tunic.
Harald brought his sword down, but the woman was in the way. His blade came down between her neck and her shoulder, knocking her to the ground. He was amazed to see that the sword had not penetrated her odd, tight-fitting clothing. If she wore armor, it was exceedingly thin and well-hidden.
The burly man was momentarily stunned by the woman’s fall, and Harald used the pause to press the attack, swinging downward toward the man’s forearm. The stranger pulled his arm back, but not quite in time: the blade struck the strange weapon, knocking it out of his hand.
Harald stepped over the woman, who lay motionless on the ground. Four more men ran toward him. Two of them carried spears, but two held the same gray metal weapons their leader wielded. If they intended to kill him, this fight would not last much longer. He brought his blade back and swung again at the stranger. To his left, one of the weapons boomed, and he heard a grunt from behind him. That would be Njord, the last of his guards. The burly man ducked under Harald’s blade and dived toward him while he was still off-balance, knocking him off his feet. Before he knew what was happening, the man was on top of him, one knee on Harald’s chest and the other on his bicep, pinning his sword arm to the ground. Something sharp cut into the Harald’s neck: a knife.
Somewhere behind him, the woman gasped a desperate plea at the man. Harald had met Saxons, Danes, Friesians, Franks, Rus, and many other peoples, but he was certain he’d never heard this language. He had the feeling, though, that she was interceding for his life. Why?
“This man is responsible for the death of my son,” the stranger said, in words that were perfectly clear to Harald. The other men standing nearby showed no sign of wanting to interfere. If this man intended to kill him, he could do so. And yet he hesitated. The woman, who had gotten to her feet, pleaded with him again. She was holding her right hand to her left shoulder, where he’d struck her, but there was no blood.
The blade cut into Harald’s skin. He winced but didn’t cry out. He would not give these people the satisfaction. “Finish it, then!” he growled at the man.
But the pressure eased. The man got up and walked away.
Harald permitted himself a smile. So the stranger hadn’t had the courage to kill a king after all. Harald sat up, still gripping his sword. The two men pointed their strange weapons at him, as if daring him to use it. He got to his feet and handed the sword to the man on his left, pommel first. The man took it and tucked it into his belt.
“Tie his hands,” the burly man said.
Harald did not resist. He looked from one man to the next, memorizing their features. At some point in the not-very-distant future, these people were all going to die.
Chapter Twenty-five
Gabe awoke again on the wooden bench, feeling even worse than the last time. Ragnar’s man had beaten him for some time; he had bruises all over his face and body. He was fairly certain he hadn’t said anything about Reyes or the others, but he couldn’t be certain. His memories after the first few blows were hazy. He regretted not asking the old man if he was Ragnar Lothbrok. Being interrogated by a legendary Viking warrior would make a good story, assuming Gabe got out of here alive. Killing a hundred Vikings with a railgun wasn’t a bad story either, but he felt a little bad about that one. It seemed like cheating.
He wondered if Ragnar Lothbrok—assuming that’s who he was—knew he was a legend. Did he even know that name, “Lothbro
k”? He’d called himself Ragnar Ivarsson, but then Ragnar Lothbrok may never have gone by that name either. Lothbrok was a nickname. As Gabe recalled, it meant something like “shaggy breeches.” He hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary about Ragnar’s clothing. He would make a point to ask next time, if he got the chance. Ragnar would probably punch him for it, but Gabe was pretty sure he was getting punched anyway.
He lay there for several hours, grateful for both the cold that kept the aching in his head to a tolerable level and for the flight suit that kept the cold from creeping into his bones. The flight suits were made to be worn for long periods at a time; they were lined with nano-enhanced fabrics that wicked sweat away from the body and broke down stray organic matter. Even so, Gabe would have killed for a hot shower.
Finally the door to his cell opened again, and the guard who’d beaten him earlier entered. The man barked an order at him. He seemed agitated; something was not going according to plan.
Gabe got to his feet and didn’t resist as the man directed into the hall. He was escorted down the hall back to the large room with the fireplace. He steeled himself for round two.
But when they emerged into the room, it was empty. They continued across the room to a massive wooden door. The guard sheathed his sword and pulled the door open. Gray light streamed inside the room.
Outside, snow fell gently on small courtyard that was ringed by a low stone wall. Just beyond the wall, the land seemed to fall away in a steep cliff; the hills across the river were barely visible through the snow.
Ragnar stood just outside the door, facing outward. He glanced back as the door opened. Some ten paces in front of him stood Reyes, Sigurd and several of Sigurd’s compatriots. Sigurd was at the head of the group, with his sword against the throat of a heavyset man wearing finely tailored wool clothing. The man’s ruddy face was framed by a dense beard and thick locks of strawberry blond hair. Reyes stood just to his left, her pistol in her hand. The others—including the two gunmen—faced outward, their weapons at the ready. Another thirty or so men—Ragnar’s, no doubt—stood around the perimeter of the courtyard, spears ready. Ragnar and Sigurd regarded each other coldly.
The Dream of the Iron Dragon Page 25
