Blood Codex

Chapter 41

Rose blinked, trying to clear her blurred vision. She sat in the back of a moving car, two armed heavies squeezed in either side of her, pinning her in place. A broad man with a shaved head drove with Halvdan Landvik in the front passenger seat.

She felt yet again as though she had been drinking too much, but this time it wasn’t only drugs. She lifted one hand to rub her face and the other hand came with it, her wrists bound together with zip ties. Her head felt full of cotton wool, her ears rang slightly as though she had been at a loud concert the night before. The chance would be a fine thing. She longed for the opportunity to do something as normal and mundane as go to a gig. And to feel this way from actually drinking too much, carefree and happy.

She’d had moments of clarity here and there since the ritual but knew she had been out for hours. The process had left her drained, thoroughly exhausted. Only now was she beginning to feel as though she might be rested enough to start thinking clearly again. She managed to blink her vision clearer and looked out between Landvik and the driver. She recognized the sight ahead of her, as she had been here several times before. Sometimes casually as a tourist, but also in her professional capacity.

Their car was queueing with several others, moving slowly along a narrow roadway that led out across mudflats, water to either side in pools and patches. In the distance was an island. She was looking at the Holy Island of Lindisfarne, off the north east coast of England, not far from the Scottish border. She raked through her memories of the place. A tidal island, also known simply as Holy Island, accessed by this causeway that was cut off by the tide twice every day. Lindisfarne had been an important center of Celtic Christianity under several saints. In the tail end of the eighth century there had been a Viking raid on the island, she remembered that much. After the Viking invasions and the subsequent Norman conquest of England, a priory had been re-established on Lindisfarne. She had fond memories of exploring its ruins with an ex-lover. The small castle atop the island had been built in the sixteenth century. The island wasn’t large, maybe three miles long by one and a half wide. Sand and mud flats surrounded it, and across a part of that expanse the ancient pilgrims’ path ran. Many people chose to walk that way rather than drive over the relatively modern causeway where she now lined up with her captors. And that was the sum of her groggy recollections. What were they doing here?

They traveled slowly along the mile or so of causeway until the island became clearer ahead of them, all gray rocks and deep green grasses under a lowering sky. One of those classic English days where everything was dull and overcast, even though there may not be rain. She suspected some light drizzle nonetheless, and imagined the gloomy weather would persist for several days. It usually did, especially this far north. The causeway led along the long, narrow spit of land on the island’s western side, sometimes out over the mud flats, other times hugging slight green rises. Slowly, the land on their left grew taller and grassier while mud flats persisted to the right. Eventually they gained the island proper, dry stone walls to one side. The whole place remained low to sea level, but now well above the tides. The street became tree-lined, the dwellings of the islands one hundred and fifty or so residents on either side. Then they entered the small town, white walled buildings and lots of gray-brown stone. In the far distance was an aberration in the otherwise flat landscape, a sudden small peak of rock, the castle atop the hill a gray-brown fortification, standing proud over the slate gray ocean. The sea was relatively calm, so there must not be much wind outside. But they had turned south through the town and continued along that way. Rose knew from previous visits that they were headed to Lindisfarne Priory and Monastery. Why?

She tried to piece together the journey, but it was all a blur. She had vivid flashes of the ritual however. Memories of a different life. Of being a different person. And the flashes of excruciating pain. She shut that memory down quickly before it could overwhelm her again. Even secondhand, that agony was mind-destroying. She had, at least in part, lived it. How was that possible? But she had lived it, felt and heard and smelled the environs of ancient Scandinavia. She knew the sensation of a strong male body. She knew implicitly the fear of certain death and the equally sure certainty of the impending halls of Valhalla. She had felt the knife blade open her back, the ax chop at her bones. She gasped, pushed the memory away again. Could it really all have been some trick on Landvik’s part? Some strange hypnotic spell? But why? There was nothing for him to gain from any of this unless he believed it completely. Which he certainly seemed to. But what exactly did he believe? She strained her mind back, tried to ignore the solid memories of her historical self and recall what the interrogation had entailed. Questions asked and answers given. And then she remembered one word. Mjolnir.

She couldn’t suppress a soft laugh at the recollection. Landvik twisted in the seat to look back at her. “You’re coming around at last.”

“Thor’s Hammer?” Rose said. “Seriously? All of this has been about you searching for a freaking mythical hammer? A thing that never existed?”

Landvik smiled softly, shook his head. “It existed. The great king Ragnar Lodbrok rediscovered it, and by its might he rose to power and led his people to great conquests.”

“Come on!” Rose scoffed. “That’s as much myth as the hammer itself.”

“Lodbrok’s conquests are a matter of historical record.”

“Until he was killed! Why didn’t he hammer all his enemies to death?”

Landvik’s face hardened. “Ragnar lost the true faith. He was fascinated by Christianity, and foolishly believed that to worship both the true gods and the Christian gods would give him even more power. In fact, his apostasy cost him everything.”

“By true gods,” Rose said, “I assume you mean the old Norse gods.”

“Old maybe, but no less powerful. In fact, only more powerful for their age. Except that only a true believer can harness the power of the hammer.”

Rose let her eyebrows rise. “And Ragnar, tempted by the Christian faith, wasn’t a true believer?”

Landvik raised both palms. “Just so. But I am a true believer.”

He fell silent, turned back to face the front as the car left the mainland behind and started to travel slowly along the causeway.

“True nutcase, more like,” Rose muttered. In a louder voice, she asked, “So why are you keeping me with you now, if I’ve already told you where to find the hammer?”

Landvik didn’t turn around, watching the priory ruins grow nearer. The tourist traffic, both in cars and on foot, was heavy. Rose wondered how easily they might haul her around with her hands bound up in the scattered crowds. Maybe she could scream for help, make a scene to get away. But her curiosity burned. “Why keep me?” she asked again.

Landvik sighed. “You told us one word. Lindisfarne. So that is where we are. But we might need to extract a more specific memory from you yet, if we can’t find out why you brought us here. So we’ll start at the priory and begin our search. I suggest you do all you can to remember any details that might be lodged in your mind, or we will have to conduct the ritual again. For your sake, you had better hope it does not come to that.”