O’Brien went into the city with Birgir and Joseph, who spoke the most Frankish of the group. They left Folki behind, as he was running a fever. Skjöldur, housing the six men who had developed symptoms, became a de facto quarantine ward; the crew members who remained unaffected set up their tents on the shore. This was an imperfect solution, to say the least: they had no way of knowing which of the seemingly healthy crew members carried the virus. In any case, somebody had to administer to the sick men on the boat. Helena, over O’Brien’s objections, had taken on the role of nurse, bringing the men food and water, and doing her best to keep them comfortable.

  O’Brien harbored a vague notion of finding an inn where the sick men could rest, but it soon became clear this was untenable. It was a long walk up a rocky foot path to the city gates, and inside the walls the streets were narrow and packed with pedestrians. Even if they could find an inn with enough private rooms, it would be virtually impossible to get six sick Norseman there—and they would probably infect half the city in the process. As it was, O’Brien had to instruct Joseph and Birgir to keep their distance from the city’s residents and keep their mouths covered when they spoke.

  The three men discussed their predicament as they huddled in the corner of an inn, drinking beer and eating mutton stew. They decided on a wait-and-see approach: they would resupply in the city and then camp on the beach, waiting for the pathogen to take its course. At the rate the virus was moving through the crew, soon more than half of them would be sick, and if it really was as deadly as it appeared to be at Saint-Nazare, they were going to be short-manned for the voyage home.

  “What about Skjöldur?” Joseph asked, staring into his beer.

  “We’ll have to scuttle it,” Birgir said. O’Brien nodded sadly. Their ship was hopelessly contaminated; there was no way they could allow it to get anywhere near Iceland. They were going to have to find another way home. The three men were silent for some time, pondering their situation.

  O’Brien was having a hard time wrapping his mind around the deadliness of the virus. It was almost unheard of for a virus to kill as effectively as this one apparently had at Saint-Nazare. Even in the genocide of the North American natives through the introduction of smallpox and other infectious diseases, the mortality rate hadn’t reached a hundred percent—and that process had taken decades. The key element in those epidemics was the introduction of pathogens against which the natives had no natural resistance: the natives’ immune systems hadn’t had a chance to adapt to germs that had evolved in Europe and Asia. That led O’Brien to a troubling prospect: the plague they were experiencing was not natural.

  If that were the case, there were two likely possibilities. The first was that despite their precautions, the spacemen had inadvertently brought a virus with them from the future. If they had, however, he would have expected the outbreak to have started sooner, centered on Norway or the Seine Valley. It was possible the virus had been passed from the spacemen to the local population and then mutated into a far more dangerous form somewhere in western Frankia, but this seemed improbable.

  The second possibility was even more worrisome: the Cho-ta’an may have begun a germ warfare campaign. He couldn’t imagine how they might have done this or what they hoped to accomplish by starting a plague in Europe; knowing the Cho-ta’an, they were probably content simply to kill as many humans as they could.

  O’Brien excused himself and stepped outside, making his way to an empty alley behind the inn. “Carpenter, you there?”

  “I’m here, O’Brien. Go ahead.”

  “I think we need to consider the possibility that this plague isn’t natural.”

  “You think it was engineered by the Cho-ta’an.”

  “You don’t sound surprised.”

  “Was just talking it over with the captain. He had the same thought. As far as I can tell, the plague killed that whole town in just over a week. Viruses that deadly don’t just appear from out of nowhere like this.”

  “Well,” said O’Brien, suddenly feeling the need to play devil’s advocate, “it’s possible it spontaneously mutated from a less dangerous strain.”

  “In a population of a couple hundred people? Our subject matter expert is unfortunately no longer with us, but common sense would tell you the odds of that happening are slim.” Carpenter was speaking of their biologist, Thea Jane Shaw, who had been killed during their flight from Norway to the Frisian coast.

  “The virus didn’t necessarily originate in Saint-Nazare,” O’Brien said.

  “No, but then how did it get there? There’s a reason the Black Death didn’t happen until the fourteenth century. Most travel between cities in Europe ceased after the fall of the Roman Empire. There isn’t enough traffic to sustain a virus this deadly. It might spread from its starting point to a few nearby towns, but it would quickly burn itself out. A virus that kills its hosts in a week isn’t going to get very far in a world without automobiles or aircraft.”

  “Unless someone is helping it,” O’Brien said.

  “That’s right. If, for example, one were to travel from one major port city to the next, infecting as many people as he could at each stop, one could compensate for the virus’s tendency to burn itself out while maximizing mortality rates.”

  “You think that’s what the Cho-ta’an are doing?”

  “It’s just a theory at this point.”

  “What would their end game be?”

  “Who knows?” Carpenter replied. “Killing everybody in Europe, probably. They may not share our philosophical consensus that it’s impossible to change the past. For the record, I’m not sure I buy it either.”

  O’Brien thought for a moment. “You know, if you could…”

  “Repurpose my pattern recognition algorithm to look for disease vectors? Already working on it. Should have something for you by tomorrow.”

  “Wow,” O’Brien said. “Okay, sounds like you’re way ahead of me on this one. I don’t suppose you have any recommendations for treatment?”

  “How many of your crew are sick?”

  “Six, at last count.”

  “Given the symptoms you describe, it sounds a lot like pneumonic plague. Same virus as the bubonic plague, but it’s airborne. Dr. Kim is still coming out of stasis, but hopefully we can give you some better information soon.” Georgia Kim was the ship’s doctor. Mallick had decided to wake her after the threat from the plague became evident. “For now, bed rest and plenty of fluids. Ice would help with the fever, but I’m guessing that’s in short supply this time of year. Hold on.”

  O’Brien’s comm went silent for several seconds. When Carpenter came back on, he said, “Dr. Kim says there may be some local herbs around that will help with fever and body aches.”

  “Like what?”

  “She’s, um… not feeling very well herself right now, but I don’t think she knows exactly. Wait. Okay, she says to try to find a local herbalist or doctor.”

  “A doctor? You mean the guys who double as barbers?” From what he knew of medieval doctors, they were better off without them.

  “You don’t have to send your guys in for a bleeding. I’m just saying, find a local who knows something about herbs. It may not retard the progression of the illness, but you can at least make them comfortable. And if you can find something to treat nausea, it will help with dehydration. For all we know, those people at Saint-Nazare may only have died because of dehydration or malnutrition.”

  “All right, point taken. We’ll do some asking around. Call me when Dr. Kim has anything more to tell us.”

  “Will do. Carpenter out.”

  O’Brien walked around to the front of the tavern and went back inside. When he neared the table in the back, he was surprised to see Birgir leaning forward, his face buried in his arms. Sweat glistened on the nape of his neck.

  “It came over him very suddenly,” Joseph said.

  O’Brien’s heart sank. So now they were up to seven.

  “Birgir, do you think you can walk?” Joseph asked.

  Birgir let out a quiet moan.

  “We’d better hurry if we’re going to get him back to Skjöldur.”

  “Come on, Birgir,” O’Brien said, taking his arm. They helped the old Norseman to his feet. Birgir coughed several times as he got up, and then wiped spittle from his chin. Joseph shot O’Brien a worried glance.

  O’Brien knew what Joseph was thinking: we’re next. He was half-right. The way things were going, O’Brien was soon going to be the only member of their expedition still breathing.

  Chapter Thirty

  Sigurd met Harald in the training yard in front of Hrólfr’s fort later that afternoon. Fortunately, Sigurd’s wound was not severe; the flesh was cut to the bone, but no sinews or major arteries had been severed. The wound was cleaned and bandaged by one of Harald’s healers, and he was sent to the yard to await his opponent. He was met by Njáll, who had heard Sigurd had been called to the fort and hopped on the next boat to go after him. Njáll listened in stunned silence as Sigurd told him what he had done.

  “You had a dagger to his throat? And you let him go?”

  “He swore in front of Hrólfr and another man that he would meet me in personal combat. His honor will not let him renege.”

  “It sounds to me like you should have killed him when you had the chance.”

  After some time had passed, Sigurd began to wonder if Njáll was right. But soon men and women began to filter into the yard, forming a ring at the perimeter. It was clear they were expecting a fight. Duels were not uncommon among Vikings; they were an acceptable means of settling a conflict between two men. It was less common for the belligerents to fight to the death, however, and still more rare that one of them was the King of Norway. No public announcement had been made, and there hadn’t been time for men to travel from the camp at Rouen, but even so, a crowd of some eighty people had gathered. Sigurd suspected this was everyone currently at the fort.

  Harald exited the fort to cheers from the crowd, most of whom probably hadn’t even known he was on the premises. Only a few had ever seen him, but excited murmurs surrounded them as word of his identity spread. Hrólfr walked with him.

  Harald’s armorer, a man named Thorgil, strode to the center of the yard, carrying two round wooden shields. Behind him walked his assistant, Gudmund, with two swords. Thorgil called to Sigurd, who stood with Njáll toward the south end of the yard.

  “May the gods be with you,” Njáll said.

  Sigurd walked silently toward Thorgil. Harald, standing nearby, removed his cloak and handed it to a man behind him.

  “Sigurd, as the challenger, you may have first choice of weapon,” Thorgil said. Gudmund held up the two swords. They looked virtually identical to Sigurd: Frankish blades of good make but unexceptional design. He picked the one on the left. Harald chose a shield and took the remaining sword. Sigurd took the other shield and the two men stepped away from each other and squared off.

  “Sigurd Olafson has challenged King Harald to combat, and Harald has accepted. This will be combat to the death. No quarter will be given.” Gasps and murmurs of surprise went up from the crowd.

  “You do not have to do this, Harald,” Hrólfr said. “It is not too late to withdraw your consent. This man has no standing to challenge you.”

  “He has accepted the challenge,” Sigurd said. “If he backs down now, all who are gathered here will know he is a coward.”

  “The King of Norway does not need to prove himself to you, nor to these people.” He turned to face the spectators. “Sigurd lost his son, and he is aggrieved, as any of us would be. But his son was killed honorably, in war, by men in service of Harald’s laudable goal of uniting the country of Norway. His claim to vengeance is not valid.”

  “I have accepted the challenge,” Harald said gruffly. “Let us cease arguing and be done with it.

  Hrólfr bowed slightly to the King and took a step backwards. He did not speak again.

  “The challenge has been accepted,” Thorgil said again. “Let the combat begin.” He turned and made his way to the perimeter. Hrólfr and the other men did the same. Harald and Sigurd were alone in the center of the circle, some ten feet apart.

  Sigurd banged his sword against his shield, getting a feel for it. He sized up his opponent. Harald was not a small man, and he was no stranger to the sword. Despite Sigurd’s goading, it was true what he had said: Harald had personally led his men in combat countless times. One did not become a Viking chieftain—much less King of Norway—by hiding behind other men. Harald had grown older since his days of leading small bands of men in raids, and as his behavior at the battle the previous year showed, more cautious. Sigurd was no longer young either, but he had spent much of the previous year in combat or preparing for it. He did not doubt he could best the King.

  Flouting Sigurd’s expectations, Harald came at him aggressively, swinging his sword in a backhanded sweep toward Sigurd’s waist. Sigurd easily blocked the blow but was surprised at its strength. It was not uncommon for these wooden shields to split during battle; they were more effective against arrows than swords. For now, though, it held.

  Sigurd fought defensively, hoping to take advantage of Harald’s evident anger and impatience. Harald had accepted Sigurd’s challenge out of necessity, but like Hrólfr he regarded Sigurd’s claim as illegitimate. Sigurd’s impudence angered him, and Sigurd could use that anger against him.

  Harald continued to come at him, startling Sigurd with both his ferocity and stamina. Sigurd began to think he had underestimated Harald: the King fought like a man twenty years younger. As Sigurd parried and blocked, slowing moving around the arena in backwards circles, the spectators began to jeer and boo. A chant of “Har-ald! Har-ald!” started.

  Sigurd would not let himself be rattled. He had waited a year for this moment, and he would not be goaded into making a mistake. As the frequency and force of Harald’s blows began to decrease, Sigurd went on the offensive. He parried a swing and then countered, knocking Harald’s shield aside, and then jabbed at Harald’s left shoulder. Harald dodged, and the blade slid along his arm, slicing through the fabric of his shirt. Sigurd brought his sword back, trying to cut deeper, but Harald knocked the blade away with his own sword and then went for Sigurd’s neck on the counter-swing. Sigurd barely managed to duck below the blade, dropping to his knees in the process. Off balance, he pressed his shield against the ground to steady himself.

  Sigurd was coming to an unpleasant realization: he had underestimated Harald. Even in his anger and impatience, Harald was a better swordsman than he. Perhaps if Sigurd had waited a little longer, had allowed Harald to grow tired, he might have a chance. But he had done exactly what he’d determined not to do: he had rushed his attack, allowing himself to be goaded by the crowd. It didn’t bother him that he was probably going to die. But he could not accept Yngve’s death going unavenged.

  Harald brought his sword down again, and Sigurd raised his sword to parry. The blades clashed, and Harald raised his sword and brought it down again. Over and over, Harald’s blade came down, in such a furious barrage that it was all Sigurd could do to parry. His shoulder began to ache from the effort of absorbing the blows. At last he seized on a momentary pause to dive aside, rolling over his shield and getting back on his feet. Harald wasted no time in coming after him again, raining blow after blow on his shield.

  Sigurd began to reconsider his plight. At this point, Harald was just being reckless. There was no doubt in Sigurd’s mind that Harald had the skill to beat him, but Harald was fighting like a man with nothing to lose. This went beyond impatience or irritation at Sigurd’s impudence. Harald’s furious blows were driven by pure rage.

  Sigurd attempted a counterattack once again, but Harald knocked his blade aside with ease and then swung again at Sigurd’s midsection. Sigurd brought his shield up clumsily, and Harald’s blade struck the edge, neatly splitting it in two pieces barely held together by the iron boss in its center. Sigurd hurled the useless shield away as Harald came at him again. Sigurd parried several more blows, and Harald showed no sign of slowing. If anything, his ferocity had increased. Had his flagging earlier been a ruse? Or was he getting angrier the longer the fight went on?

  His shoulder aching, Sigurd brought his blade up to parry for perhaps the hundredth time. He couldn’t keep this up much longer. But as their blades met again, he heard a sound he’d heard once before, on a battlefield in England. It was the sound of metal cracking.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  The small merchant vessel bearing Gabe and Áengus arrived in Portsmouth on the evening of the last day in October. The docks of that ordinarily bustling port city were eerily quiet. Having been informed by Captain Mallick what O’Brien’s team had encountered in Saint-Nazare, Gabe was on edge. He’d told Áengus privately, but not wishing to upset the crew, he’d opted not to say anything to the others. It seemed unlikely to him that the plague would have reached England so quickly, but the obvious agitation of the ship’s captain, a doughty Frank named Roland, gave him second thoughts.

  “Wait here,” Roland ordered, as his men secured the boat to the dock. Gabe and Áengus, along with the seven other men on board, did as instructed. Gabe and Áengus exchanged worried glances, but neither spoke of their suspicion.

  It was confirmed just after dark, when Roland returned from his investigation of the city. “Plague,” he said. “Half the city is sick.”

  “Did you… come into contact with any of them?” Áengus asked, as Roland climbed onto the deck.

  Roland shook his head. “I was waved off by a priest. All the trading houses are closed. We’ll have to return to Rouen.”

  Groans went up from the crew. If their cargo was not delivered on time, they would forfeit most of their pay.

  “There’s nothing I can do about it!” Roland snapped. “I can’t unload sixty cases of wine in a city overrun by plague.”

 

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