JORUND NEARED the edge of where the sand met a strip of unusually hard, black ground. As inflexible as stone beneath his boot heel, it was as if the entire path had been carved from solid rock. How odd.
He crouched behind a screen of foliage, sword drawn and held at the ready, taking careful measure of his new surroundings.
Neatly trimmed patches of bright green grass dotted both sides of the path, far too symmetrical to be natural formations. Perhaps these people were farmers, although Jorund could spot no hint of crops, only grass and flowers.
Here and there, people—sometimes alone, sometimes in pairs or small groups—wandered the street dressed in bizarre and often revealing clothing. Men and women alike wore brief, brightly colored tunics that bared their arms, and short leggings that often scarcely covered their skin to midthigh. On their feet they wore peculiar boots that skimmed their ankles or bared their toes and heels.
Oddly enough he could see not a single weapon among them. Many of them carried haversacks of some sort, especially the women, but no sword, axe, or spear was to be seen. Where were their warriors? Were these people so powerful that they feared no one? Or perhaps they wielded a weapon far more fearful than his sword—magic.
Jorund was a practical man. He feared no enemy’s blade and had conquered both land and sea by the might of his arm and the depth of his coffers. Many times the magicians of his enemies cursed him, and yet he lived to tell the tale, no worse for wear. Of course, he’d taken many precautions against such curses, wearing amulets and offering sacrifices to the gods before battle—without his priests’ knowledge. His priests condemned the use of magic; indeed, they’d left a trail of burned and blackened witches all along the route Jorund had traveled on his way to take Lagarvík. Magic, they said, was the work of the Evil One, a blasphemy in the eyes of the One-God.
All Jorund knew was he could control none of it, had no knowledge of spells or incantations, of curses or potions, and that made its use all the more dangerous in his eyes. He had allowed his priests to condemn to death all who had been accused of witchery because Jorund feared their use of magic, not for the benefit of any One-God.
It matters not what magic they wield, he told himself. I stand never defeated—I ground king and peasant alike beneath my heel, no matter what bewitchments were at their disposal. Still, perhaps it would be wise to keep to the shadows until I am certain of the power of these strange people. But in the end, conquer them I will.
Their obvious wealth, as evidenced by the towering castles that glittered like jewels under the sun, staggered Jorund and ignited a voracious greed within him. Never had he seen such bounty, such extravagant use of precious materials. There were no wattle-and-daub huts, no crudely hewn stone or rough wooden shelters. Instead, the entire city—impressive enough by its sheer size alone—seemed to have been carved from tremendous diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires. Gold and silver coated everything here, from the buildings to the simple handrails that lined the beach.
It was a city unlike any Jorund had ever before seen, and one he instantly vowed to make his own. With such wealth lining his coffers, Jorund could indeed rule the world.
Nei, with such riches, the gods themselves would be humbled at my feet.
As he crouched in his hiding place, a fearsome beast bellowed nearby, its loathsome stench choking the air. Jorund tightened his grip on his sword, his muscles flexing as his body readied itself for an attack. Instead, a great monster with sleek skin as red as flame roared past Jorund, its growl reverberating in his bones.
What power was at work here? Jorund gasped, his heart hammering behind his breastbone. This was beyond any magic he could ken. The creature had neither head nor tail, and its black-and-silver legs rolled round at great speeds as it passed him. Most disturbing of all was the woman Jorund had spied through the beast’s great blank eyes, sitting calmly in its very belly! To tame a creature of such size, strength, and speed spoke of a power greater than Jorund had ever before witnessed.
Resolving again to make this land his own, Jorund crept silently back to the shore. He would need more time to gather his wits and make his plans. Most importantly, he needed to find his men, if they had survived, or to recruit more if they had not.
Keeping to the shadows of one of the huge buildings that lined the sands, he was edging his way back toward his hiding place under the dock when his keen ears caught the sound of laughter. Something moved within the building, seen through a gap in the draperies of a very large, man-sized window. There was a barrier of some kind between Jorund and the occupants of the room within, a nearly invisible, hard, cool wall.
At any other time, Jorund might have marveled at the material that made up the barrier, but not now. Now, all he saw was the profile of a man within the room. Tall and extremely well built, the blond man was naked, his back to Jorund. Still, there was no mistaking his identity.
Bjorn Eriksson.
Bloodlust surged through Jorund’s veins at the sight of his most hated enemy. ’Twas Eriksson’s fault Jorund had lost his ship and his men and had found himself marooned in a strange world full of magic. It was his fault Jorund left behind Lagarvík, the city he spent years training for and his last coin to conquer.
Bellowing his rage, he threw himself forward with all of his considerable might. The invisible barrier shattered into a shower of a million sparkling crystal shards as he crashed through it into the room.
THAT, CHASE thought as he forced himself off the bed and into his Jockeys, was the most incredible sex I’ve ever had, bar none. Not that he was about to tell that to Bjorn—the man was so puffed up as it was, if offered a compliment, he might just explode from the pressure of the conceit swelling his chest.
Well-deserved conceit, Chase reminded himself. His belly was still rumbling with pleasant aftershocks from his climax, his legs trembling like Jell-O as they strained to hold him upright. He watched Bjorn amble over to pick at the room service cart, searching for any edible crumbs that might have been overlooked. For dinner, Chase was going to order him the biggest, thickest steak the hotel had to offer. After the performance Bjorn just gave, he’d earned it.
Suddenly, the sliders imploded in a cloud of sparkling bits, filling the room with the sound of breaking glass. Chase’s first thought was there had been an explosion—perhaps a propane tank or underground gas line had ruptured. He tensed for the flame and smoke that would accompany such a blast, instinctively turning his face away.
Instead of the roar of flames, a human bellow thundered in his ears.
“Eriksson!”
Turning, Chase saw a man framed by the heavy drapes at the sliders. Nearly as tall and broad as Bjorn, the man was dressed as archaically as Bjorn had been, wearing a fur-trimmed tunic, tight leggings, and tall brown leather boots laced to the knee. His hair was dark red and gold, tangled and matted as it fell to rest well below his shoulders. More shocking than the man’s appearance was the long broadsword he was brandishing and the scowl of pure hatred on his face.
“Jorund!” Bjorn hissed, moving with astounding speed as he snatched up his sword from where Chase had left it resting against a wall, unsheathing it in a whisper of steel against leather. “I’d thought that the sea had swallowed you whole, but it seems that even she cannot tolerate your foulness. She’s spat you back up like a rotted fish!”
“Bjorn? Who the fuck is this?” Chase gasped. His heart was hammering in his chest, first from the fright of the windows exploding, then from the sight of the leather-clad giant who came through them. How could there possibly be two time-traveling Vikings? Worse, the sword the man held looked wickedly sharp, and he seemed altogether too proficient with it as he swung it in a slow, menacing arc in front of him.
“Jorund the Mealy-Balled Shit-Eater,” Bjorn answered, his teeth clenched and bared at the intruder. “The worthless worm who murdered my father and tainted my homeland with his filth.” Bjorn crouched and shifted his sword from one hand to the other, muscles bulging. “Soon to be Jorund the Dead and Dismembered.”
“’Tis a pity your mother lived to breed, for it was a blight upon the entirety of Norge the day she shat you out, whelp!” Jorund roared. Without warning he sprang forward, his sword meeting Bjorn’s, sparks flying as steel bit steel.
Unable to move, scarcely able to breath, Chase watched in horrified awe as the two men battled, swords slicing through the air and clanging loudly. In a deadly, primal dance as old as mankind, they parried and thrust with amazing agility, their movements chillingly graceful.
Muscles strained under taut skin and sweat beaded across their brows. Bjorn’s body glistened with it, a thin rivulet running between the twin ropes of muscles that ridged his stomach and another down his spine to the small of his back as he matched Jorund stroke for stroke.
A sword bit into the floor lamp, slicing through the brass pole as cleanly as a knife through butter, the shade toppling to the floor. The food service cart was upended, plates and cutlery flying. The television was knocked from its stand, crashing to the floor, smoke and sparks curling up from its shattered screen.
Chase backed up to the wall between the bed and the bathroom, flattening himself against it. He eyed the telephone, as yet undisturbed by the medieval combatants, wondering if he could manage to slip by them to call for help without losing his head in the process. But the Vikings moved too quickly, their swords too long and movements too broad and wild for Chase to chance it in such small quarters.
Jorund would manage to push Bjorn back a step or two, only to find himself under Bjorn’s intensified, frenzied attack, then edged backward toward the shattered sliders.
“You fight as your father did—poorly,” Jorund sneered as he pivoted and swung his sword toward Bjorn’s side. “He begged for his life when I took both his amulet and his head! A coward, as is his son after him!”
Bjorn countered his blow, swords clanging loudly. “You lie!”
Chase winced as Jorund’s steel slipped against Bjorn’s arm, opening a long gash across his bicep that dripped red droplets onto the carpet.
“First blood, whelp!” Jorund laughed, his teeth bared in a feral smile.
“Last blood you’ll see besides your own, you goat-fucker!” Bjorn roared, lunging at Jorund. Foot by torturous foot, he backed Jorund to the sliders and beyond, onto the sand.
Phone forgotten as Bjorn and Jorund disappeared outside, hidden by the heavy, stiff drapes, Chase followed, not thinking of what possessed him to leave the relative safety of the hotel room. He only knew he couldn’t let Bjorn out of his sight, as if somehow his presence was needed to keep Bjorn safe from Jorund’s sword.
Sand billowed under their feet as Bjorn and Jorund continued their battle over the beach. Still naked, Bjorn’s golden skin made him seem a part of the dun-colored dunes, a warrior made of the earth itself, except for the brilliant ruby liquid coating his arm from his wound.
Farther back still, the clanging of their swords sounded like thunder rolling over the coast, rising above the crash of the sea against the shore.
The waves rolled over the sands, foamy spray sluicing around their ankles as they reached land’s end. Bjorn ducked under Jorund’s sword as it arced above his head, narrowly missing his skull. Holding Skullsplitter in both hands, Bjorn fell to one knee, twisting, his blade biting deeply into Jorund’s side. He scrambled to his feet.
Chase screamed as a thick gush of blood painted the sands red, the seawater turning foamy pink at the warriors’ feet.
As Jorund fell slowly to his knees, he dropped his sword, clutching instead at the amulet he wore around his neck. It began glowing an eerie green, pulsing as if it were alive.
“For my father! For Lagarvík! For Norge!” Bjorn cried, raising his sword high overhead. He brought it down in a swift arc toward Jorund’s neck.
And met empty air.