37

 

The world was ice and snow. So familiar. It had been that way for most of her young life. At just twenty-four, Val was younger than all the men under her command, including the German. She had been on her own for eighteen years, scavenging, making due, fighting to survive.

All of it had taken place in ice and snow.

But now they were stranded, the drifts and ravines of snow in the mountains so deep that no man or beast could make it through the mountains until the summer. Personally, Val thought the mutant bear from Sweden would have stood a chance, but she and her men were exhausted, and despite their restlessness, the chance to heal and regain their strength was crucial and somewhat welcome.

Unfortunately, the ghosts of the last several hundred miles followed them. Werther passed away in his sleep just five weeks into their stay at the spectacular castle. The man’s death, though natural and from a long life well lived, still cast a pall on the celebratory nature of the group’s initial stay, as the snows and storms had swept in, blanketing the landscape in brilliant white. At first, the men had grumbled that they would be stuck for the winter. But once old Werther had introduced them to the food and wine—hundreds of bottles of different vintages, stretching back hundreds of years—the mood had shifted.

Werther had explained to them all about Schloss Neuschwanstein, the formal German name for the mammoth castle. Originally built for a king, the building had been host to visitors since 1886, and then when the annihilation times came, Werther’s ancestors had cared for the palace, defending it against invasion and the passage of time, life fairly comfortable with the large array of solar panels installed high on the ramparts at the back of the castle. At the edge of the mountains, the structure had fared strangely well in the earthquakes of the Utslettelse—which the old man had called the Aufhruhr—and only minor repairs had been needed. Werther was born in a bedroom on the fourth floor of the castle’s main building, and he had known the place as home and sanctuary for his entire life.

Shortly before he died, he had called Val to his small study and sat in a huge, overstuffed chair by a fireplace. The man always had a kindly air about him, but on that evening he had been grave.

“I understand your story, dear Val. Your mission to the Floating City beyond the mountains. If there is a chance that you can save the remnants of the human race, you must try, of course.”

Val sat silent, curious to hear what the man had to say.

“You understand that I am quite old, and I will not last though another winter after this one—”

“Why say such things?” Val interrupted.

The old man waved his hand dismissively. “It is true, and we both know it. Listen now. There is no one else to care for this place when I go. I know you need to press on south of the mountains when the weather clears and the roads are free of snow. I know. But...well, things can change out there. I have not ventured far from this castle in my life, but I have taken small trips. I know what waits beyond these walls, as do you.”

Val thought back on the challenges she and her men had already faced. She stayed silent, willing the man to finish.

“This place can be yours when I am gone, Val. If things do not go well on your mission, you can come back here to live out your days with my blessing. Perhaps things will be different for you and Ulrik.”

She was suddenly taken aback. He was talking about children.

“Oh, no,” she said, a small smile on her lips. “It is not like that between us. We are only fellow Vikings. Warriors both.”

The man grinned back at her, his eyes twinkling with secret knowledge. “Nevertheless. If you need a refuge, you will always be welcome here, and I will charge you with taking as good care of her as I did, should you come.”

Three days later, the kind old man had died. Unable to bury him in the frozen ground of the gardens, and with no water to send him on a Viking funeral, they had opted for storing him in one of the solar-powered freezers in the basement, until the spring thaw. The panels were slanted so steeply on the castle walls that most of the snow and ice slid right off them. But Ulrik checked and swept them daily anyway.

The bitter wind blew Val’s long blonde hair over her shoulders, the red-lensed goggles hanging around her neck as she peered out a narrow window. She stood in the mini-turret attached to the castle’s tallest tower. The nearby mountains were her only focus now. The snows had begun to melt in the valleys to the north, but to the south, the peaks were still encased in ice. Werther had told her it would be well after spring and into summer before the roads would be passable.

Not much longer now, she told herself.

Ulrik’s injuries from the fight with the ape had been minimal. All the others were in shape, although she feared if they needed to stay cooped up much longer the men might begin to lose their fighting edge. Morten had taken to the castle’s massive library, whiling away the hours and days with books. Without his conversation and comradery, Oskar had resorted to what he knew best—complaining. At least until Anders had shut him up a week after the old man’s death by telling him he could learn a new skill, picking up hunting at Anders’s side. It was that, or Anders would stop finding the moaning man food when they were on the road again. Nils and Ulrik worked on shoring up the castle’s defenses, should anything or anyone decide it looked like a good place to winter.

Heinrich, like a puppy, had been available and at Val’s side whenever she needed him. She suspected he was attracted to her, but she wasn’t interested. She just wanted to get on the road again. When they were traveling, she had felt a sense of purpose beyond simple survival, which was what she had known all her life. She had feared their immobility would make the men crazy, but instead, she was the one losing her patience. Her dreams were restless. She paced the empty echoing halls of the giant building. Stagnation ate away at her.

Too much time alone led to horrible, awful questions she should have asked Halvard before departing from Stavanger. It led to thoughts of failure. What would happen to the human race if they did not make it across the mountains? And now that she had her Vikings, her berserkers, her family, what would happen to her if they all failed to make the crossing? They had fared fine without Erlend’s mechanical expertise so far. They had prevailed in their battles without Trond and Stig. But would they be able to continue without Nils’s steady historical guidance? Could she continue on without Ulrik’s strength and support?

She didn’t like to think of it. There had been wild times in her last decade, when she had been more animal than young woman. She had no desire to revisit those times. Ever.

She took one last look at the ice-encrusted crags, and then shut the window.

Soon.

She began the long descent down the stairs of the tower.

They might not be able to depart just yet, but she could get them ready. Get them packed up. The ATVs needed to be fueled. They would take whatever they could from the castle, and close it up tight. As soon as the ground was warm enough, they would bury the old man and take their leave.

She didn’t think she would ever come back to the castle, despite the wishes of sweet old Werther. She had a second mission to fulfill, after the first. And of them all, she was the only one who knew what would come next.