Hammer of the Gods Read online

  The old woman shook her head sadly. “I gave you the chance for the truth to be told…”

  “Jorick speaks the truth!” Rutgar’s voice bellowed from the doorway. “I was there.”

  “As was I,” Voldur exclaimed, rising to his feet.

  “I, too, was there!” Bjorn shouted. The girl sitting on his knee fell unceremoniously to the floor as he scrambled to his feet.

  Seven more times men rose, their voices growing louder each time.

  Rutgar moved swiftly toward the old woman, nearly pushing people out of his way as he went. He stopped just short of running her down, staring down his nose at the wrinkled figure that came no higher than his chest. He sneered, flexing his fingers on the hilt of his sword. “Name me liar hag,” he hissed, “and my sword will taste woman’s blood for the first time!”

  “Enough, Rutgar,” Jorick sighed. “We have seen enough death. Would you not agree?” His eyes went from his old friend to the woman. “I have answered your questions. Now, unless you have silver or gold to purchase any of the goods I’ve brought, never speak to me again.”

  The old woman reached into her tattered dress retrieving a small leather purse. She turned the sack over, spilling several coins and a gold ring at Jorick’s feet. “You shall have silver! You shall have gold! You shall have more wealth than any one man can imagine!” she cackled. “But, you and yours shall know endless suffering, until she that has tamed the dragon swallows the moon!” She turned without another word, the crowd parting as she hobbled away

  Jorick stood for a moment, his eyes falling on the ten men that had fought by his side, and then followed him here. He owed them much more than he could ever repay, but he would see each of them as rich as kings; that much he swore to the Gods before they left the mountains.

  He bid everyone a good evening, and then left the hall. He slowly made his way back to the dock. Tonight, at least, he would sleep on his ship. Tomorrow?... Tomorrow could wait till morning.

  He did not bother to look over his shoulder at the sound of heavy boots thudding to catch up to him. No assassin worth a damn let his intensions be known in such a way. He expected the gravelly voice in his ear before the words were uttered. Unless he had forgotten everything he knew about his friend, he knew what those words would be before they were spoken.

  “Just give a nod, and that old woman’s throat will be slit before dawn.” Rutgar’s voice was just loud enough to be heard by Jorick, even in the dead silence of this sleepy village.

  “No.” Jorick shook his head.

  “She knows.” Rutgar placed a hand on Jorick’s shoulder, and Jorick stopped his slow pace.

  “She knows nothing.” Jorick could barely make out his friend’s features in the dim moonlight. “If she did, she would have announced it while we all stood in the hall.” He sighed deeply. “There will be more questions now, though.”

  Rutgar laughed, trying to keep that hushed as well. “No one among us will speak differently than you. Who would believe any of us if we did?” The big man turned, heading back to the beer hall- and, presumably, that pretty girl that had sat on his knee. “Sleep well, my friend,” he called over his shoulder.

  “And you… my friend,” Jorick whispered, then headed for his ship.

  * * *

  Seven years later, Jorick stood on that same dock, waiting anxiously to see Rutgar’s smiling face as the mooring lines were secured. He felt old and tired. The years had been as cruel as the old woman had predicted. He had married a beautiful young maiden, Aoubjorg, two months after settling down on the island. She bore him five beautiful sons – four of which perished before reaching their first year. Aoubjorg herself died after giving birth to their last son, but not before she named the child, Bragi.

  Some said it was improper to give a child the name of a God. They could say what they will. Bragi was beautiful, and healthy, but most of all happy… even without a mother. Perhaps the old woman was wrong after all.

  “Ho, Jorick!” Rutgar shouted with excitement as he leaped to the dock. He embraced Jorick with a spine crushing embrace. “I purchased two more ships from Norway. That takes us to nine each, my friend. Our trade has moved into the Mediterranean, and I have men negotiating with the Persians for spices.”

  Nine ships? The Mediterranean? This was all too much. Jorick already had enough gold to purchase every village in Iceland… twice over! Those that had followed him years before were now wealthy enough to make kings bow at their feet. As his old friend’s words made his head swim, Jorick could see three iron bound chests being lowered to the dock, presumably full of more gold.

  I would trade every bit of it to have Aoubjorg back, he thought.

  Did you bring it?” Jorick asked.

  “Of course!” Rutgar replied, then he reached over the railing to retrieve a package wrapped in oilskin. “The finest that could be found.” His chest puffed as he handed it to Jorick.

  Jorick dropped to his knees and removed the oilskin to reveal a thick leather bound book, two vials of black ink, and a dozen quills. He thumbed through the blank pages of the book and smiled up at his friend, for what seemed the first time in years. “Thank you… thank you so very much, my friend.”

  “The man that made it makes them for the monks.” Rutgar laughed loudly. “He said he would rather die before making one for a heathen god worshiper…That was before I put two purses of gold into his palm. When he handed it to me, he said it would make those Christian monks seethe with jealousy. I hope the quality of his work matches his confidence.”

  Jorick checked the book thoroughly. The ornately tooled leather was exquisite. The binding was perfect, the pages the finest quality he had ever seen. Yes, the monks would probably seethe. “Perfect does not begin to describe what you have brought me, Rutgar.” He carefully bundled everything back into the oilskin and rose. “Come, my friend. Let us eat and drink like kings, and speak of nothing but happy times, this evening.” He placed a hand on Rutgar's shoulder and strode to the beer hall.

  * * *

  In the early morning hours of the 6th of May, 1940, Vali Odinsson was awakened by a hand clamping tightly over his mouth. He tried to scream and fight off his attacker, but strong hands held him firmly to his bed. His heart pounded in his chest; his scream for help never making it past the muscled hand over his mouth. Terror gripped him, and he began to thrash wildly, his blows landing on thick muscled chest and arms, as his teeth tore at the calloused hand over his mouth.

  “Be still, son.” That was his father’s voice being whispered into his ear!

  Vali strained in the darkness to make out his father’s face, and he stopped struggling. His father removed his hand from Vali’s mouth and the young man gasped for breath. “What is wrong, Papa?” he asked between pants.

  “I need you to get dressed as quickly as you can,” his father said in a hushed voice.

  Vali obliged, throwing the clothes his father handed him over his lanky fifteen-year-old frame as best he could in the dark of his room. He was ushered downstairs in the dark and became aware they were not alone. Two men stood in the living room, and two more were waiting by the front door, peering out the side windows towards the opposite end of the street, all appearing nervous. Then he saw the machine guns each man held.

  “What’s going on, father?” Vali asked quietly, and for the second time in the span of a few minutes, his father failed to answer. Even in the dim light he could see the worry etched on his father’s face. What on earth was going on? Were they being robbed or kidnapped? He thought to yell for help, but did not. He would not risk his father’s life any more than his father would risk his.

  Two more men came from the rear of the house, carrying machine guns as well. One nodded to his father, and then the two took positions by the front door. His father knew these men?!

  “We are clear, Odin, but not for long,” one of the men looking down the street said to Vali’s father. “We have to go now!”

  Vali’s father nodded, then h
elped Vali into his heavy wool coat so black it seemed to absorb what little light filtered in through the windows. Then a hat, just as black with a wide brim, was plopped on his head by one of the other men.

  They stepped out quietly, two men rushing toward either end of the street, making as little sound as possible. The other two men stayed close, their eyes darting everywhere as they moved up the street, keeping to the shadows. Reykjavik had never been known to have much of nightlife, if any; but tonight, it was eerily quiet. Nothing moved, save themselves. Not one dog barked or cat howled as they wound their way from street to street. It was if the entire city, and everything in it, was holding its breath in anticipation.

  In anticipation of what? Vali wondered.

  It soon became apparent they were heading for the docks, though he had no idea Why? None of this was making any sense. Vali opened his mouth to ask, but closed it quickly, letting himself be ushered in silence. The air was biting cold, and his father’s face was covered in sweat. Whatever was happening, his father was just as scared as he was… perhaps more so.

  You’re the bravest man in Iceland, Papa. What could scare you?

  When they reached his father’s warehouse, Vali saw the two men that had gone ahead, the other two that trailed behind were nowhere in sight. Moored at the dock was the freighter, Rakel, named after Vali’s mother. He was eight when she died. And Papa still cries on her birthday.

  The feint smell of diesel smoke and the low drum of her engines said she was ready to sail, where to or why she was setting sail before sunrise were more mysteries in the ever growing stack.

  There seemed to be gunmen in every shadow on the ship and the dock. The panic that filled Vali since awakening turned to sheer terror.

  “What is this, Father?” Vali tried to keep his voice from shaking as bad as he felt.

  His father said nothing until they reached the gangplank. Then he looked deeply into Vali’s eyes. The sadness on his father’s face made Vali want to burst into tears. His father pulled a small bundle from under his coat and handed it to him. “Take this and keep it safe.” He held Vali tighter than ever before. “Remember, my son, I love you more than anything in this world.” There was trembling in his father’s voice. His father backed away, and then looked to the sky. “No moon tonight,” his father sighed. “With luck… it ends here.”

  Vali was going to ask what ends, but he never got the chance. The two men that had escorted them to the docks whisked him onto the ship, and the gangway was raised immediately. From below the engines roared, and they crept away from the dock. “Wait. We can’t leave without my father!” Vali cried.

  “Those were my exact orders, Vali.” Gunner Bjornsson appeared from out of the shadows.

  “Gunner!” Vali exclaimed, rushing to his father’s oldest and dearest friend, wrapping the big man in a tight embrace. “What’s going on? Where are we going? And why isn’t Papa coming with us?”

  The big man sighed, and Vali knew there was going to be bad news. “We are going to America.”

  “When are we coming back?” Vali asked, backing away.

  Feint popping sounds, like fireworks, came from the dock, and Vali turned to see small flashes of light in the darkness. The men were shooting! The far end of the dock lit up with muzzle flashes from three or four machine guns, followed by incoherent shouts. The entire dock was ablaze with gunfire, and the ship was speeding away, leaving his father behind! “Papa!” he screamed.

  He turned back to Gunner. The big man’s eyes were closed, and a tear was creeping down one cheek. Vali was getting the sickening feeling his father was dead. Worse, he believed his father knew he was going to die tonight.

  “What is happening, Gunner? Please tell me.”

  Gunner looked at him levelly, then nodded, “We discovered Nazi spies on the island, looking for something. Your father said we were to take you to America till after the war.”

  “Why didn’t he come with us?”

  “He kept saying ‘there was no moon tonight, maybe it will end.’”

  That was the second time Vali heard those words, and he still had no idea what they meant. “Maybe what will end?”

  Gunner shook his head. “I’m not sure. The only thing I do know, if we couldn’t get you out of Iceland, we were to make damned sure that parcel got destroyed.”

  Vali stood leaning on the railing, staring out at the water, wondering if his father was still alive. Gunner stayed close, but said little. The semblance of a meal was brought after sunrise, but Vali had no stomach for food. He fumbled with the package his father had given him, a beat-up old book wrapped in a well-worn oilskin. He carefully opened the book and stared at the bold script, written in Latin.

  Even from his prison, Loki planned to bring forth Ragnarok. Odin, himself, came to our village and offered life immortal in the Hall of Heroes to vanquish an army of demons set loose by Loki’s followers…

  For the rest of the day Vali put the book down only to eat. Well into the night he stared at the last few words before closing the book. He sighed heavily, understanding the last words he would hear his father speak.

  I will find this dragon tamer, Papa. Then I’ll shove the moon down her goddamn throat!

  Chapter 1

  The sun rose casting a golden glow on the gray stones of an ancient fortress deep in the Carpathian Mountains of western Romania. The Dragon’s breath – a thick fog rolling through the forest like a living thing trying to squeeze the life from the land – was out in full force this morning.

  For centuries the castle and its inhabitants provided protection to the rugged people that called these mountains home. Some believed that Vlad the Impaler even used it to keep the Turks at bay – though those rumors had never been proven. Others still spoke of satanic rituals, human sacrifices, and cannibalism within its walls; giving rise to the countless curses believed bestowed upon anyone associated with the castle.

  From high on the east tower’s balcony, Sorina Lazarovici leaned against the iron railing, staring at nothing in particular, as the war between light and shadow waged on the landscape below. Already, the treetops were visible. Occasionally, a gust of wind blew a swirl of mist skyward to curse the yellow orb, before dissipating. The light would win the battle, but it came with a price.

  It always comes with a price, Sorina thought.

  The air was cold, and Sorina’s breath was a golden mist in the sun’s first rays. Her nightgown and robe offered little warmth; but, at least, she could pretend to be shivering from the chilled air rather than fear.

  Noises drifted up from the grounds more than a hundred feet below, but Sorina had little interest – if any – of the day-to-day workings of the castle. She knew she should; as the last of the Lazarovici blood-line, responsibility for everything for miles in either direction rested on her shoulders.

  But all she really wanted to do was run away, leaving the only home she had ever known, and the horrors associated with it behind.

  She sighed. A girl can dream, she thought.

  The sounds of footsteps behind her brought her back to reality. She sighed again. Is there nowhere in this immense fortress I can be alone? She raked slim fingers through her raven-black hair in a futile attempt to smooth the nest of tangles. She scrubbed her cheeks with her sleeve. She knew her eyes would be bloodshot from crying most of the night, but there was little she could do about that.

  Funny, every time she thought there were no more tears in her left to shed, something happened to prove her wrong.

  She turned, leaning her back against the railing. Her grandmother, Selucca, was coming toward her with a heavy wool shawl in her outstretched hands. Sorina let her grandmother drape the shawl over her shoulders; it would end-up there anyway, no matter how much the younger woman protested.

  The morning sun emphasized every line etching her grandmother’s face, making the old woman appear frail. Sorina snorted. Anyone who thought Selucca Lazarovici frail was a complete fool. Sorina’s father guided his peop
le with a velvet glove. Selucca reminded them, an iron fist awaited within that glove.

  Most of the villagers thought Selucca Lazarovici regal. How could she be otherwise? She was, after all, a Lazarovici, despite having that title by marriage. They treated the old woman like a queen, as if she deserved the adoration of her loyal subjects. Sorina saw her grandmother for what she was: a bitter old woman that did everything possible to make her granddaughter’s life a living Hell.

  “Greggor is dead,” Sorina said wearily.

  “Yes, he is, child,” Selucca replied, wiping her granddaughter’s face with an embroidered handkerchief. “There is no shame in crying for the dead,” she said warmly. Then she grasped Sorina’s shoulders and began shaking the young woman. “But hiding up here is unforgivable,” the old woman hissed. “Your place is down there, reassuring your people all is well.”

  All is well?! All has never been well! “They are your people,” Sorina said defiantly. “They know the true puppet master of the castle.”

  Selucca’s gray eyes were as hard as the stone walls of the ancient fortress itself. She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I have been more than patient with you, child – “

  “I am no child!” Sorina cut her off. “In three months I will be thirty!” She freed herself from her grandmother’s grip. “I won’t spend the rest of my life in this place! I won’t end-up like…” she trailed off.

  “Like me?” the old woman’s voice was softer.

  Sorina’s face reddened and she avoided her grandmother’s eyes. “I’m sorry, grandmother. I… I…”

  “You are quite right, is what you are.” Selucca gave a reassuring smile. Experience had taught Sorina to be weary of that smile, it usually preceded something horrible. “I have sent Nicolae to America with another offer.”

  “Tell me you’re joking.”