The dawn of the iron dra.., p.16
The Dawn of the Iron Dragon, page 16
part #2 of Saga of the Iron Dragon Series
This last was directed at Helena, who smiled weakly in response.
“Where is your wife?” Joseph asked.
“Still at home asleep, by the mercy of the gods,” Dimitris replied. “I’d like to be halfway across the Sea of Marmara by the time she wakes up, if possible. I don’t mind rowing.”
“All right, enough gabbing!” Birgir shouted from the stern. “Oarsmen, take your seats. Everybody else, hold on and stay out of the way!”
Chapter Twenty-six
At the end of October, nearly a month after the siege of Rouen began, a fleet of twenty-one ships came up the Seine. Sigurd was told this was a force of Danes and Norwegians, organized by the Danish chief Siegfried. Sigurd smiled at the mention of the Norwegian contingent: he did not have the spacemen’s gift of foresight, but in this matter at least, things were going as he had imagined they would. This fleet had not come for the spoils of Rouen. Word had spread throughout Scandinavia that Hrólfr was assembling a force capable of taking Paris itself, and the temptation had proven too great for the Norwegians to resist. Soon, Sigurd’s opportunity would come.
It came sooner even than he expected. Hrólfr had been overseeing the siege personally but had returned to his fort a few days earlier on the pretext of needing to inspect their food stores, leaving his second-in-command, a man named Jorgen, in charge. Sigurd suspected the real reason for Hrólfr’s departure was the arrival of a prestigious guest who had come over on one of Siegfried’s ships, and it didn’t take long for this suspicion to be confirmed. The morning after the fleet arrived, Jorgen allowed a diplomatic contingent to leave the city and travel downriver to the fort. The contingent returned that evening, and word quickly spread that a settlement had been reached. The Viking forces would remain in place while the details were worked out. The next day, Sigurd was summoned to the fort.
As a sort of unofficial officer in Hrólfr’s army, Sigurd had been allowed the freedom of traveling between the fort and Rouen as he wished, and generally it was no trouble to hitch a ride on one of the several boats that ferried men and equipment back and forth during the day. Many of these boats were crewed by locals who were more than happy to accept a silver coin for assisting the invaders. This time, though, Sigurd noted that he was escorted to a karve full of men known to be loyal to Hrólfr. He smiled, and his hand went to the leather pouch that hung from his belt. The time had almost arrived.
He was escorted by three men from the karve to Hrólfr’s fort. The men pretended to be uninterested in him, but he knew their purpose: one in front of him, two behind, never letting him out of their sight. Never before had he needed an escort to speak with Hrólfr.
Once inside the gate, he was asked to surrender his sword—another first. Sigurd scowled at the young man making the demand. A shock of blond hair spilled out from under his iron helmet. He was no older than eighteen—the age of Sigurd’s son, Yngve, when he was cut down by Harald’s men.
“Hrólfr insists I take all weapons,” the young man said. They were standing on a small covered porch in front of Hrólfr’s lodge.
“You’ll be taking their weapons too, then?” he asked, referring to the three men standing in the yard behind him, doing a poor job of looking uninterested in him.
“If they go inside the lodge,” the young man said.
Sigurd shrugged and unstrapped the sheath, handing it to the man, who set it on a bench behind him.
“The knife too.”
Sigurd unsheathed his knife and handed it to the man.
“What’s that?” the man asked, pointing at the leather pouch hanging at Sigurd’s side.
“Personal.”
“I’ll need to look at it.”
Sigurd sighed in frustration. He opened the pouch and pulled out the clay vessel. The man took it from him and looked it over, his brow furrowing. “What is this?”
“A gift for Hrólfr. As I said, it’s personal.”
The man held the vessel to his ear and shook it. “What’s in it?”
“Nothing you would understand.”
“Is it a weapon?”
Sigurd laughed. “Does it look like a weapon?”
The man had noticed the metal pin in the vessel’s neck. The pin bent at ninety-degree angle so that the visible section fit snugly into a groove in the neck about an inch long. The man got his thumbnail behind the bent section and began to pry it away from the neck.
“Please don’t do that,” Sigurd said, doing his best to sound merely irritated, rather than worried.
“Why?” the man asked, letting go of the pin.
“Have you never heard of a Persian music box?”
The man frowned dubiously.
“The name is inaccurate, of course, for as you can see, it is not a box. If you pull that pin, the vessel plays a song.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“You don’t have to, as it is not a gift for you.”
The man put his thumbnail behind the pin again.
“It will only work once,” Sigurd said. “A Persian music box has only one song, and when it has played, it will never be heard again. I bought this one from a merchant in Rouen who did not know what he had.” This latter claim wasn’t completely far-fetched; several men from Hrólfr’s force had managed to gain entry to Rouen by pretending to be locals.
“How do I know it’s not dangerous?”
Sigurd shrugged. “I suppose you don’t. What is your usual procedure for music boxes?”
The young man regarded him skeptically for a moment, and then handed the vessel to him. “You may go in.”
Sigurd thanked the man and tucked the clay vessel back into the leather pouch. He opened the door and went inside, where he was met by another man, who escorted him to the reception room where Hrólfr ordinarily held meetings. The guard opened the door and Sigurd strode inside. Standing at the far end of the room, looking out a window overseeing the river, were two men. The one on the right was the hulking giant called Hrólfr Göngu—walker—because he was said to be too big to ride a horse. He was, if the historical record was to be believed, destined to be the first Duke of Normandy. The one on the left was Harald Fairhair, the current King of Norway. Sigurd noted as the door closed behind him that two men stood behind him, one on either side of the door. He didn’t recognize these men; presumably they were Harald’s personal bodyguards who had come over from Norway with him. They wore matching armor and helmets, and short swords hung at their sides. The one on his left was weathered and sinewy, with a long beard that was streaked with gray. The smooth-chinned, strawberry blond man on his right was little more than a boy.
“Sigurd Olafson,” Harald said. “It is brave of you to return to my cousin’s territory. Surely you knew I would hear of it.”
“Hrólfr informing you of my presence in Normandy?” Sigurd said, staring at Hrólfr. “The possibility never occurred to me.”
Hrólfr said nothing, returning Sigurd’s glare.
“I mean you no harm, Sigurd,” Harald said. “I’m here only to ask you a few questions.”
“You mean me no harm?” Sigurd growled, taking a step forward. “You killed my son!”
“Men in my employ did, yes. And I’m sorry it came to that. You must understand, though, that if Norway is to survive, it must be united. You do not see it, but the petty chiefdoms of Europe will not last. If I didn’t unite Norway, it would fall to the Franks or the Saxons or the Danes. If you saw the future as I did, you would—”
“Do not speak to me of the future, usurper!” Sigurd roared. “My son is dead!”
“Be quiet before I have my men silence you!” Harald snapped. “You are lucky I don’t have you killed after what you did to me. Do not forget that you held a knife to my throat.”
“I had every right to kill you,” Sigurd said. “My son’s death demands vengeance.”
“Then you should have taken your chance when you had it,” Harald said. “The gods do not look kindly upon those who fail to take the opportunity they have been given. You let me live at the pass and then you fled from your fort on the Seine rather than face me there.”
“Were you at that battle?” Sigurd sneered. “There were several men hiding behind shields at the rear of the line. You’ll forgive me if I did not recognize you from such a distance.”
“You call me a coward, but you know I have led my troops in battle on many occasions. It was your people who started using weapons that can strike with great accuracy at a distance. With such weapons, it is a simple task to demoralize and decapitate an enemy force by killing its leaders. Which brings us to the reason you are still alive.”
“I know what you want from me,” Sigurd said. “You wish to know where the foreigners are hiding, so that you can seek them out and steal their weapons and technology. I will give you nothing.”
“Be reasonable, Sigurd,” Hrólfr interjected. “Harald is willing to offer you mercy in exchange for information about the foreigners. We are not your enemies. You and I have worked together well on our siege preparations, and there is no reason we can’t continue our partnership. With the foreigners’ technology, all of Europe will be—”
“You will get nothing,” Sigurd said again.
“Your cooperation is not in question,” Harald said. “Whether you retain all your fingers and toes is.” Hrólfr nodded to the man behind Sigurd’s left shoulder, and the two men stepped toward him.
Sigurd slipped from the men’s grasp, moving closer to Harald and Hrólfr. He pulled the ceramic vessel from the pouch at his side, gripping the pin with the fingers of his left hand.
“What is that?” Harald asked. “What are you doing?”
“This,” Sigurd said, holding the vessel before his face, “is called a hand grenade.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Skjöldur made good time on its voyage back to the Atlantic, riding a steady wind from the northeast across the Sea of Marmara, around the southern tips of Greece and Italy, and then across the Mediterranean to the Strait of Gibraltar. They stopped for the night in the Greek port of Methoni to rest and buy provisions and then for three nights in Syracuse, to wait out some bad weather. Sunshine and a steady wind returned on the fourth day, and the karve embarked again, sailing for three days to reach Tunis. After briefly resupplying there, they sailed for another week to reach Gibraltar.
The wind was against them along the coast of Portugal, requiring a week of frequent tacking to make northward progress while keeping land in sight. Despite their nautical prowess, the Vikings avoided the open sea whenever possible. They had ways of determining the ship’s orientation, and Carpenter could track their location by the signal from O’Brien’s comm, but O’Brien wasn’t about to overrule Birgir’s instincts to save a few days in travel. Birgir didn’t want his help, and O’Brien had enough to worry about without taking over navigation of the ship.
Skjöldur stopped again for a night at the Spanish port of A Coruña and then rode the north wind across the Bay of Biscay, along the northern coast of Spain. Here the weather turned stormy again, so Birgir furled the sails and the men switched to oars. Spirits were generally good on board, but by this time the novelty of rowing had worn off and the younger recruits began to grumble that they’d been unwittingly sold into slavery. Birgir made it clear in short order that such talk would not be permitted on his ship: he didn’t care how valuable these young minds were; troublemakers would be thrown overboard.
Most of the recruits battled seasickness to some degree. Helena seemed the least affected, experiencing only occasional bouts of queasiness when the sea was rough. Dimitris bore his nausea with stoic silence, and the younger recruits, having been admonished by Birgir, did their best not to complain lest he make good on his threat. O’Brien worried most about Eckart, who had been sick for nearly the entire voyage. The boy lay curled in the prow, getting up only to vomit over the side. He wouldn’t eat, but Helena did her best to get him to drink water to avoid dehydration.
The foul weather persisted for the next three days as they sailed up the Frankish coast. The storm wasn’t violent enough to threaten the ship, but the winds were too blustery for sailing, requiring constant rowing against the wind. At last Birgir ordered the exhausted oarsmen to make port at the tiny village of Saint-Nazare, about a hundred and fifty miles south of the English Channel. O’Brien knew the name of the village only because Carpenter was tracking their movements and referring to maps of medieval Europe.
As Skjöldur coasted into port, O’Brien noted that the docks were deserted. This was not surprising; Saint-Nazare was a village of fewer than a hundred people, and the weather was not good for fishing. But as he made his way through the drizzle and gusting wind to the center of the little village, the absence of people began to seem uncanny. He shared a concerned glance with Joseph, who walked alongside him. Folki trailed close behind them. Birgir, Helena and Dimitris remained at the dock with the other Norsemen and recruits.
“Where is everyone?” Folki asked, echoing O’Brien’s thoughts. “Surely they don’t all hide indoors any time there’s a little rain?”
It was indeed strange. They had seen sheep and a few horses milling about enclosed pastures, but no farmers. No denizens of the town were seen, not even a man hurrying inside with an armful of firewood or a woman bringing a bucket of milk in from the barn. No smoke came from the chimneys. The village seemed to be deserted.
They made their way down the muddy main street to a run-down building that seemed to be the one inn in the village. O’Brien knocked, but there was no answer. He opened the door to find the place empty. A quick look around the place confirmed this observation.
“Vikings have been raiding farther and farther down this coast,” Folki said, as they left the building. “The village may have been evacuated.”
“Would they have left the animals?” Joseph asked.
“Not unless it was very sudden,” O’Brien said. “And I can’t imagine Vikings wanting to raid this place in the first place.” He was not an expert on the matter, but he’d paid some attention to the way Sigurd and the others had picked targets when they were planning raids at the fort on the Seine, and this place would not have tempted even their small band of Norsemen. It appeared to have one small church, which probably housed a few copper candlesticks and tapestries. Hardly worth sailing a hundred miles down the Frankish coast.
O’Brien considered sending Folki back to the ship to retrieve the rest of the men. There was plenty of room in the inn, and if the town really was deserted, nobody would complain if they rested there for a few days. They had enough food onboard to last at least three weeks, so they could wait for the weather to improve and then disembark again, stopping to resupply at Brest or one of the other large port towns farther up the coast.
But the inexplicable abandonment of the town troubled him. He wouldn’t feel that they were safe until he had some idea what had happened here. Checking his comm display, he found that it was nearly noon. By his reckoning, Andrea Luhman should be right overhead. He walked outside and tapped the cuff. “Hey, Carpenter?”
“O’Brien. What’s up?”
“This village you pointed us to, Saint-Nazare. There’s something weird about it.”
“Weird how?”
“It’s deserted. I’m standing in the middle of town, and I haven’t seen a soul. You got any more information on this place?”
“Afraid not. Scant historical records and what I can see from six hundred miles up. When I scouted this place out a week ago, it looked normal enough.”
“It definitely wasn’t abandoned a week ago?”
“No, I’d have noticed. I can pull up the footage, but I’m sure there were plenty of people around town. I wouldn’t have sent you to a ghost town.”
“Have you been watching it since then?”
“Sorry, no. Limited bandwidth. I scoped out a few towns along the coast and then moved on to other tasks. I may have a few hours of surveillance footage from a week or so ago. I’ll look it over and let you know if anything looks amiss.”
“Thanks, Carpenter. O’Brien out.”
Ultimately, they resorted to going door-to-door. The town center was comprised of a few dozen buildings clustered around several narrow dirt streets. There was no answer at the first three doors they tried, but at the fourth house O’Brien heard a muffled moaning. O’Brien tried the door: it was unlocked.
“I’ll go first,” Folki said, pushing past him. O’Brien didn’t argue. Folki was younger and more formidable than he—not to mention more expendable.
The house was little more than a shack appended to the leatherworking shop next door. As the door swung open, an odor of rotten milk and rancid meat wafted out. Folki strode inside. O’Brien and Joseph pulled their cloaks over their noses and followed him.
They found themselves in the main room of the house. To the left was a stone fireplace that had gone cold. A tattered rug covered most of the floor, and to the right sat two rustic wooden chairs. Rotting food, abuzz with flies, lay strewn across a table and the floor; rats scattered as the three entered. Straight ahead of them, soft moans came from an open doorway. Folki moved carefully across the room, his hand on the knife at his belt. As he reached the doorway, O’Brien put his hand on Folki’s shoulder. Folki stepped aside, allowing O’Brien to pass.
He entered a small room, which was dark except for strands of dull gray light that filtered through the cracks in the shutters on the one small window on the far wall. In a bed under the window lay two figures covered by a heap of blankets and cloaks. The smell was even worse here than in the rest of the house. The nature of the odor was difficult to pinpoint; O’Brien forced himself not to think about it. He moved closer to the bed.
It took him some time to determine that the figure on the left was the source of the moaning. Both were pale and emaciated; the one on the left seemed to be a man. The woman next to him was either dead or unconscious. Judging from her appearance, O’Brien guessed the former. The man didn’t look like he was going to last much longer either.
