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It had been fifteen minutes since the three men entered the tomb and they’d yet to come out. Either they were dead, or intentionally delaying the inevitable. Death.
Hoor double-checked his weapon and stood from his kneeling position just around the bend in front of the cave entrance. He used it for cover, just in case the others came out firing. Moving quickly, he switched on his rifle’s barrel-mounted light, and without pause, continued into the mountain, making his way deeper into the unknown.
He stopped and listened.
Silence.
Hoor started up again, doing what he could to resist running in with the trigger depressed. All he wanted was Gungnir. If he had to spray the tomb with bullets, he would. But as soon as he exited the tunnel, his jaw dropped. Fairhair’s coffin was there, as was his treasure, but there was no sign of the three men who had gone in after it.
What of Odin’s spear?
Practically leaping across the room, he found the crypt empty, save for the long-dead king’s corpse.
Empty....
He spun and looked for the others. Nothing. Even Sorensen was gone.
Seething in anger, Hoor feverishly inspected every square inch of the tomb, eventually stumbling upon the hidden tunnel in its rear. Holding up his light, Hoor could barely see a few feet in front of his face, but he could hear them. Their footfalls echoed in the tight confines of the underground passage. He took a few strides forward and stopped when he saw a second tunnel on the left and a third to the right.
Which way?
A noise drew his attention back to the tomb as another set of footsteps could be heard, pounding down the entryway. Not knowing who it was, Hoor took up a firing stance behind King Harald’s coffin and waited. Then, he saw them, three red lasers swaying back and forth in the dust-filled air.
ScanoGen’s strike team.
Hoor stood and lowered the barrel of his Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun. The incoming team was earlier than he expected, throwing yet another monkey wrench into his plans. But, he knew with three armed men and a berserker on the run, having the extra firepower wouldn’t be a bad thing to have. He’d need to be patient and wait for the right opportunity to steal away.
“You’re early,” he said to the six men. They formed a semi-circle around him, all standing as still as ghosts. Then, one of them stepped forward, his face hidden behind a pair of futuristic goggles.
“And you’re late. Our employer isn’t pleased.” The team’s commander looked at the others. “We aren’t exactly cheap.” The others laughed and grinned like schoolchildren. The bravado wasn’t in short supply with this bunch. “Thankfully, he had us in the area just in case you screwed the pooch.”
Hoor’s face soured. Scano had such little faith in his work that he secretly sent a team in behind him as a backup plan. “Mr. Scano is impatient. I work slowly so I don’t get myself killed. You, on the other hand, would rather barge into a monster’s den, boots stomping as loud as cannon fire, guns hot.” He smiled. “And believe me, I doubt any of you would’ve survived his fury.”
“Give me a break, beanpole.” The team leader stepped up beside the coffin. “Where’s the artifact?”
“Taken, unfortunately.”
“What?”
“Relax, Mr...”
“The name’s Killian, but my associates here call me, Kill.”
“Kill?” Hoor asked, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Okay then, Mr. Kill, they took the spear into the tunnels under the mountain. They shouldn’t be too far ahead of you. I’ll await your arrival outside and—”
“Not a chance, sonny boy.” All six men leveled their assault rifles at Hoor. “You’re going to lead the way.” Kill stepped closer. “And if Mr. Scano doesn’t get what he wants, I have orders to put a bullet in your brain, capisce?”
Knowing when he was outnumbered and outgunned, Hoor nodded and backed away toward the rear tunnel. As he moved off, he heard a rustling sound from just inside the entrance. Instead of waiting to see what it was, he took off running and was quickly met with shouted voices.
But there was also something else there too.
A low growling could be heard just under the men’s voices. Hoor knew what it was and if his luck would have it, the six-man strike team would have their hands full with...
“Ulfhednar.”
The berserker stepped out from a previously unnoticed alcove, flexing and straining against an invisible force. Luckily for Hoor, Sorensen didn’t seem to notice him deeper within the shadows. He’d covered his flashlight with his free hand and flattened himself against one of the walls.
But the other men weren’t so fortunate.
Eyes wide in terror and awe, Hoor witnessed the hamrammr, or shapestrong—a berserker who changed form—howl into the cave, rattling every bone in his body. Then, Sorensen’s frame began to crack and break, growing larger and mightier as it did. The man’s already huge physique became even more monstrous.
The hamask—the building internal rage—seemed to increase tenfold with every breath. Soon, the berserker would be at full-strength and unstoppable. Hoor had no intention of being around when it did. He’d be as dead as the strike team was about to be.
Gunshots reverberated and the creature bellowed in anger, charging straight into the cave with a flurry of sweeping blows. Shouts of surprise quickly turned into those of gargled agony as the hired professionals were swiftly slaughtered.
Hoor didn’t stop running.
The only thing that would stop his pumping legs was the three men he sought, a dead end, or worse, the berserker. He knew the beasts could be injured, but could they be killed? The legends about them were written when sword and shield, bow and arrow were the primary implements of war. What about high-caliber, armor-piercing rounds?
A bloodcurdling roar stopped him in his tracks. That was when he realized that the shooting had stopped. The berserker lived, but was it well enough to hunt?
Hoor took off running again, refusing to answer his own question. For the first time in years, he was truly terrified.
––––––––
Sorensen’s initial change was like nothing he’d ever felt before. His bones cracked and popped, elongating and thickening. Once he outgrew his clothes, they shredded to nothing. Hair—no, not hair, fur—sprouted all over his body. His already ample chest hair thickened and grayed.
His bushy beard fell out next and his already wild hair lengthened and grayed like the rest of the invasive coat. The color was something he recognized too. It was the same as the wolves in the region. He was becoming one of Odin’s champions—his Ulfhednar.
Part of him was still there mentally while it all happened, crying out in fright as he became a monster. But there was something else inside him as well. He could feel a presence within his mind, pushing him to savagery, a primal instinct to fight and kill.
The hamask was alive and well in him, but if he concentrated enough, he could control it... To a degree. Seeing Henrik had loosened the blinding rage’s hold on his mind some, returning a bit of his humanity with it. At first, he wanted to kill everyone in that tent, but when his friend’s eyes met his, he instead felt a calling to protect them.
He felt it now, too.
Haugen and the two Americans had only just exited the tomb when a fourth man, someone who was after Gungnir for its abilities, entered. Sorensen was supposed to follow behind Haugen and the others but quickly decided to stay behind and fight. The worst thing that would happen is that he would die and his nightmare would be over. If he could take out the incoming force in the process, he was content with that.
Something shot past him in a blur as he hid. He thought about abandoning his post to pursue it, but rejected the idea, and stayed true to his original plan instead. Stepping into the cave once more, Sorensen saw six men holding assault rifles. Each and every one of them gawked at his hulking form, and as he attacked, each one sent their own barrage of gunfire his way.
Diving over the coffin, Sorensen rolled and leaped to his feet, slashing one of the gunmen with his dagger-like claws. Lifting the shooter off the ground, he violently impaled him into an overhead stalagmite. A horrible popping sound was accompanied by a sickening wetness as the stone growth burst through the now dead man’s chest. Letting go, Sorensen noticed that the body didn’t fall to the floor. Instead, it just slumped, seemingly hanging in midair.
A half-dozen rounds pierced his flesh. He was aware of the pain, a dull, distant thing, barely worth his notice. He wheeled around and lashed out, backhanding another of the mercenaries with such force that the blow broke the man’s neck. The four remaining men backpedaled, watching in astonishment as the wounds Sorensen suffered quickly clotted, stemming the loss of blood to practically nothing. The wounds remained, the injuries did not heal instantly, but they no longer bled.
That made Sorensen smile. He’d do his duty and give Haugen and others the time they needed to escape. More deafening gunfire erupted, pushing Sorensen back some. But he fought the waves of pain and leaned into the volleys. When the men were obliged to stop shooting in order to reload, he made his move.
Diving forward, he rammed two of them, driving the air from their lungs. One man broke his back against a column of rock. The other lived, but not for long. Pinning his next victim down, he gripped the killer’s throat and squeezed, ending his life in seconds.
Two more left.
Leaping to his feet, Sorensen looked for the last two gunmen, but couldn’t see them. He calmed his roaring rage, and listened, hearing their footfalls in the rear tunnel. They were attempting to flee in the same direction as the others. With a growl he vaulted over Fairhair’s coffin, landing in a sprint on the other side.
Sniffing the air as he moved, Sorensen could smell blood in the dank corridor. The two he pursued were injured, giving him an easy-to-follow trail. It was another of his recently acquired traits. He could smell and hear everything around him. He grinned but just as quickly frowned. He was beginning to enjoy his newfound gifts.
They are not gifts... They are a curse.
But he knew he’d need to use them as though they were gifts, then... He didn’t know. He felt another part of him begin to slip away after his last fury-induced change. Would he eventually become nothing more than a blood-thirsty monster in time, or could he continue to control it?
The growing scent of blood thankfully got his mind off the unnerving question. If he could, he’d take his own life.
Is it possible? He knew the berserkers of old were mostly immortal in battle when in their hamask—the fury-induced mental state. He clenched his fists but calmed at the thought. Was that the key to killing an Ulfhednar? If he calmed, could he be killed?
Just more questions.
The sound of gunfire ahead was answered with his own concussive roar. Somewhere ahead, Haugen and the others were in trouble. Sorensen picked up his speed and charged into the unknown. When he eventually exited the tunnel, he’d get a glimpse into the past—into something that must’ve come from the future.
Or another world...
Buried beneath the forests of Norway was the most unbelievable sight he’d ever seen. Not only was it an incredible find but it also gave him the answer to the question of who conceived Gungnir.
It was them, he thought, standing still in shock. It was ‘them.’