25 September 1066
Jorvik, Earldom of Northumbria
Kingdom of England
A faint scent of ozone sizzled in Haakon's nostrils as Nathan and the Frenchman vanished in a temporal vortex. He hardened his mouth and turned to face Corbett. "All right, then. When are Hardrada's men due at Stamford Bridge?"
"They're supposed to receive ransom and hostages from the ealdormen of York at mid-morning, say ten A.M. They'll probably have advance scouts on both sides of the bridge not long before then."
Haakon nodded. "All right, then. I can't do this dressed as a Brother. They'll slit my throat just to satisfy Freya, or their bloodlust, whichever strikes their fancy."
The Viking berserker's arms twitched, and his eyes flickered open. Corbett glanced down and, as if ordering him to swat a fly, commanded, "Best Tase him again." Then she cast an appraising eye over Haakon. "We've got chain mail and a steel helmet from one of the Vikings that should fit you." With an imperious wave of her hand, she addressed one of her minions, "Bring us the armor from the Roman Angular Tower. Boots and a battle axe, too."
Haakon knelt by the berserker and ran his finger over the puncture wounds his Taser had left in the man's neck. The Norseman's eyes rolled in their sockets and a bubble of spittle foamed from a corner of his mouth. Haakon touched the electrodes to the man's throat, above where his pulse fluttered in his neck, but then he hesitated. There was something about what Corbett had said earlier, something about what they had done to him. Something important.
The Viking lurched and strangled curses in the Dansk Tunge filled the room. "By Odin's missing eye, may ravening hounds feast on your guts."
Corbett snapped, "What are you waiting for? Do it. Tase him."
The Norseman's arm thrashed, and his calloused fist grabbed Haakon's throat. He squeezed, and blackness invaded the corners of Haakon's vision. He jerked the trigger on the Taser, the charge buzzed, and the berserker convulsed. Seconds turned to an eternity. Haakon fought for breath as the warrior's grip on his windpipe tightened. Still, Haakon held the Taser and its charge steady. The man's arms flailed, but he wouldn't let go, tossing his captive like a dog might a dead stoat. Haakon tore at the hand choking him, his fingernails shredding the skin and leaving trails of blood, but still he couldn't breathe.
Then the thrashing ceased, and the Viking turned rigid. In another instant his hand released Haakon and flopped to the floor. Haakon gasped for air.
Corbett shrieked, "Mother of chaos, what have you done? Idiot!"
Haakon blinked his vision clear. The Viking's eyes bulged in their sockets, sightless, their pupils black wells into nothingness. Underneath the grime and scraggly beard, his ruddy face had turned yellow and his lips blue. His chest did not rise and fall. His arms did not move.
"Shit, shit shit." Haakon crouched over the man's chest and tried to apply CPR, but the leather hauberk under the chain mail defeated him. He switched to mouth-mouth, the man's whiskers prickling against his lips and the foul stench of his rotting teeth roiling his stomach. No response.
Corbett sneered, "Idiot. He's dead. Our plan's toast. What were you thinking?"
Haakon gasped out words between pushing air in the Vikings non-responsive lungs. "You—said—to Tase—him."
She pulled at his shoulder. When she spoke, the hollow sound of defeat filled her voice. "Stop. There's nothing we can do. He's probably had a massive heart attack. I bet he's stroked out, too. Look at his pupils. They're blown." Her shoulders slumped and she collapsed into the Bishop's chair.
Haakon ceased his resuscitation efforts. She was right. "How did this happen?" Then he remembered what was so important. "The nano-docs. The Taser randomized the ones inside of him, shorted them out."
She averted her eyes. "I think so, too. Chaos knows what all that voltage did. I don't think shorting out the nano-docs could cause a heart attack, but with enough of them gone, they sure weren't going to stop one. I should have thought of it."
Haakon frowned. "I've got nandocs inside me. Why didn't the Taser short those out, too?"
Exasperation flashed in her eyes. "Didn't they train you in anything? As long as you don't touch between the probes, you're not part of the circuit."
"Well, I didn't feel anything, that's for sure." He eyed the dead Viking, stood, and paced. "This screws everything." What to do? It was his fault, too. He had to fix it, somehow, to save the future.
The light from the door darkened as two villagers returned. Chainmail clinked in one of the men's grip. Their guttural Anglisc words fell flat in the deathly silence of the Rector's chapel. "Vidamesse? What wouldst thou have us do with these?"
Haakon turned to face them. His nearly two-meter frame towered over the two men, whose hollow faces and sunken eyes avoided his gaze. Chain mail, an iron helmet, and a battle axe. That wouldn't help now. Nothing would help. But then Haakon knew what he must do. His back stiffened and he spoke in the local patois, letting urgency sharpen his words. "Pray, good sirs, assist me." He kicked off his sandals and slipped the monk's robe over his head. With a nod to the dead Viking, he continued, "By your leave, we require this one's tunic and boots."
The peasants, though, didn't respond, and their gaze held steady on Corbett. One of them dared speak in a wisp of a voice. "My Lady?"
Corbett sighed and turned to Haakon, her voice still listless as she spoke to him in modern English. "What are you doing? Without the Viking at Stamford Bridge, all is lost."
Haakon kept his voice firm despite the adrenalin bristling through his veins and answered in the same language. "I'll do it. I'll be the Viking. I know the legend as well as you do, maybe better."
Her eyes flickered. "You?" Then she straightened. "Yes, it might work. You're the right size, at least. Can you handle a battle axe?"
He snorted. "Of course. I spent five years of lifespan training for assignment to this era. With this armor and another dose of nano-docs, I can easily hold out." He just hoped it would be for long enough.
She skewered him with a cold gaze. "You do know what happens to the Viking?"
"He dies. But the future lives. Our future."
"So be it. At least you are brave. I hope this works." She nodded to the villagers and spoke in Anglisc. "Pray help sir knight. He goes to do battle for God and good King Harold."
****
Pinpricks flickered across Haakon's skin as the glow from the temporal field surrounding him faded to nonexistence. He'd arrived in a copse of trees overlooking the Roman road and the River Derwent, fifty meters to the southeast. Sunlight dabbled through the overhead canopy of leaves and sent light chasing shadow across the undergrowth. A fox hunkered down and hissed at him, its fur bristled out as if by a static charge.
"Fret not, little one. 'Tis not your life that's at risk this day." He heaved a sigh and shrugged his shoulders against the weight of the chainmail. The sweet smell of heather and alfalfa mixed with the stink of the Viking's tunic and metallic odor from the armor. Burdened as he was, the heat of the late fall day sent sweat dripping down his sides and soaking his tunic. He pulled out his Timepiece and changed the settings to the infirmary at Chicago Control. Corbett would alert them to prepare for his arrival. If all went as planned, he might actually live through this. He pushed to the edge of the thicket and shielded his eyes from the morning sun.
A dirt trail meandered downhill away from Haakon, where it merged with an ancient via militaris, probably from Hadrian's day. He recognized Roman engineering in the tight cobblestones and the fitted rock abutments on each side of the river. The bridge the Legions built was long gone, though, replaced by a rough-hewn and narrow wooden span.
A jumble of Vikings traipsed across the bridge toward him, three-abreast. Behind them on the opposite bank, a much larger group decamped in a golden field of winter wheat. They sloughed off their heavy hauberks and piled their weapons in a heap nearby. A bearded warrior towered in their midst, wearing gleaming armor and a plumed steel helmet. A shorter, dumpy man stood next to him in a position of honor, although his posture showed deference. Even from this distance, the second man's armor showed signs of wear, with broken links and rusty patches. Retainers clustered about both, carrying the banner of a black raven on a white background. Hardrada's banner. The bearded one must be the Viking king, and the man next to him must be Lord Tostig, King Harold's estranged brother and Hardrada's erstwhile ally.
Haakon lumbered downhill and onto the stone road, removed his helmet, and waved to approaching Vikings. "Hail and well met, brave warriors." He waited at the stone abutments, hands on his hips and head high.
The warriors approached him in a disorganized muddle, led by a gnarly man carrying a massive battle axe. He doffed his helmet, and circled about Haakon. With each step, his weapon clanked on the cobblestone roadway. When he reached Haakon's front, he thrust his face upward and snarled, "And who might ye be, standin' here waitin' for the King's loyal armsmen?"
"I am Haakon, son of Olaf, come from Iceland. Our land is in debt to your noble King for the grain he most generously sent during our recent, grievous famine. Our selectmen, assembled in the Althing, bestowed on me the honor of dedication to his service."
The man screwed up his face. "Olaf's son, eh? Iceland? A far journey, that."
"Aye, it was. The hand of Frigga guided me, praise the gods."
"Frigga?" He glanced over his shoulder and sidled closer to whisper, "You follow the old religion?" Sweat sheened off the man's forehead, and perspiration soaked his greasy, gray-streaked hair.
Haakon whispered back, "By the eye of the Allfather, I cleave to his ken."
The man relaxed and clasped him in a sudden, malodorous bear hug. "Hail and well met, brave comrade. I am Snorri, Tokun's son." His whisper husked in Haakon's ear, "Speak to no one of old one-eye. The king follows the religion of Byzantium."
"May God be with you, my brother." Haakon's wink turned to an annoyed blink as a dribble of sweat burned in his eye.
A mutter rustled through the warriors surrounding the two men, and all eyes turned to the west. A cloud of dust rose skyward from beyond the hills, and the muffled shouts of a horde of men reached their ears. Across the river, Hardrada's corps scrambled to their feet, pointing to the gathering horde on the hills. In seconds, sunlight glinted off the spear points and shields as a vast army surmounted the crest overlooking the River Derwent and Stamford Bridge. Haakon squinted through the dust and distance. Murmurs between the soldiers turned to shouts of alarm as everyone saw the dragon banner of Wessex and the Fighting Man standard. The English King and his troops had arrived.
Hooves clattered on the wooden deck of the bridge, drawing Haakon's gaze. Hardrada, Tostig, and a small entourage of mounted warriors approached, shouting for Snorri's scouts to form a battle line against the unexpected appearance of King Harold's army. Across the river, the main body of Vikings scrambled to don their hauberks and prepare for battle.
Haakon drew a shuddering breath. The battle would begin soon.
Snorri snatched at Haakon's arm. "Stand with the King, Haakon, Olaf's son. The English monarch sends a party to palaver."
Haakon donned his helmet, gripped his heavy battle axe, and stood with the group now gathered about Hardrada and Tostig at the foot of the bridge. A dozen mounted men approached from the English line, under the white flag of truce.
Frantic shouts arose from the Viking camp on the other side of the river as men struggled with their hauberks. Horns blared, battle drums pounded, and shouted catcalls streamed into the valley from the English army. But here, at the base of the bridge, an eerie quiet filled the valley as the Viking king and his English ally Tostig met the English heralds, white wands clasped in their outstretched hands, their mounts approaching at a canter.
The leader of the Anglo-Saxon band, a young man with a well-trimmed goatee and aristocratic bearing, spoke first. "We come to offer terms."
Hardrada's gravelly voice replied in heavily accented Anglisc. "You'll get the same terms we gave to the Lordlings Edwin and Morcar at Gate Fulford. Their heads are on pikes and crows feast on their eyeballs. Soon, your impostor King will meet the same fate."
Tostig's face had turned pale. He touched his patron's arm. "We should at least hear their terms, my Lord."
The English envoy's imperious voice rang over the increasing din of battle preparations. "The good and generous King Harold sends his regards to his brother Lord Tostig. The King offers to restore his sibling's title as Earl of Northumbria and grant him a third of the Realm if he will join in an alliance against the enemies of England."
Haakon held his breath and wondered if this would play out the way the legends said.
Tostig cast an appraising eye at Hardrada, who glared at him through eyes set aflame by the midday sun. He turned back to the herald and asked, "What about my Lord and goodly patron, the King of Norway?"
A sly smile spread across the English envoy's features, and his haughty reply sent a chill down Haakon's back. "We will give him seven feet of English ground or as much more, as he is taller than most men."
Tostig chewed his lip, casting his gaze back and forth between the herald's cold expression and Hardrada's raging one. "Tell your King his brother is grateful, but he declines this offer. His honor will not permit him to invite the Norse King to England only to betray him."
The herald gave a curt nod. "So be it, then. I am sure King Harold will grant due respect to the honor you give this foreigner." He spat the last word with contempt, then jerked at the reins of his mount and led his delegation back to the English lines. The white flag of truce rippled in the warm breeze, while the Viking warriors scampered about to assume defensive positions.
Hardrada's battle horse neighed and pawed at the ground. The King turned to Tostig and demanded, "Do you know that insolent lackey? After our victory, I will enjoy ripping out his guts and hanging him by them."
Tostig's voice stayed firm, although sweat beaded his brow. "I know him well, my Lord. He is my brother, King Harold Godwinson himself."
The Norse King's face twisted with rage, and he lifted his battleaxe as if to strike, but then relented. "Had you but told me, no flag of truce would have protected him. We will settle this deceit later. For now, we must prepare our troops for battle." With a flourish, he turned his horse and sped at a gallop across the bridge to the main body of his troops, Tostig trailing after.
Haakon hefted his own battleaxe and adjusted his chain mail. Men would perish here today, creating history. The future that Tostig and Hardrada hoped for would die with them on the golden wheat field across the river. King Harold would be victorious this day, but the world he dreamed of would end, too. The real future, Haakon's future, depended on him. Everything turned on the Viking at Stamford Bridge and his delaying action. He had to give the outnumbered Vikings time to ready themselves for battle. They would lose, but in doing so would inflict grievous losses on Harold's forces. In less than three weeks, at the Battle of Hastings, the English king's dreams would then end with an arrow in his eye.
It all depended on Haakon playing his role. He clenched his jaws and readied himself mentally. He was willing to die for his future, just as the Vikings and the Englishmen were willing to die for theirs.
But who was to say which future was better?
It didn't matter. This was for his future, the one with Bach and Tolstoi. The one with Nathan and Gunnar. Yes, the one with Hitler, too. That future, good and bad, was his. He set his chin, slung his axe over his shoulder, and turned to walk past the old Roman abutments and onto the bridge. Underneath his boots, the dark currents of the River Derwent were visible between gaps in the oaken planking. He turned and stood at the ready to meet his destiny.