The Happy Viking
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It was not an auspicious start to the day. I had just woken up from a restless sleep and, as my eyes opened into the dark room, I noticed that the curtains were drawn back against the morning light.
A strange sensation of unease settled in my stomach at this news; I could feel the presence of the two men who shared the bed with me—not only because they were there but also for their absence. The bed was empty beside me, and I heard no movement in the other rooms of our suite.
My mind immediately turned to Thorfast’s whereabouts. He wasn’t due to meet me until later in the evening so it didn’t seem like he would be awake yet. But what if someone had come looking for him? What if something terrible had happened while we slept?
I jumped out of bed and ran through the dark house to the front door. When I threw open its heavy wooden panel and stepped outside, though, nothing was amiss: It was still early enough in the morning that the streets remained deserted. I took a deep breath, relieved. Then I closed the door behind me and glanced around.
“Where is everyone?” I asked aloud. “I thought I’d wake up and find all the servants gone.”
A sound came from somewhere nearby, a distant cry or grunt. It sounded like some sort of animal, perhaps. I looked toward the direction of the noise, squinting down one street and then another. There seemed to be no end to the buildings surrounding us, and I couldn’t make sense of which way to go. Wherever it was making the noise, it wasn’t close by.
My attention drifted across the street, where the sun was rising over the horizon. And when I saw the figure sitting on the edge of the roof above the nearest building, I knew exactly whose voice it belonged to.
Thorfast, wearing his leather armor, crouched atop the building, watching the streets below. His arms hung at his sides, his head leaned back against the wall of the building, and his hair falling forward. As soon as he caught sight of me, he raised his head and waved his hand at me.
With a smile, I waved back, glad to see him alive after last night’s events. I walked up onto the roof and joined him. “Good morning,” I said. “How did you get here without waking me up?”
“There are ways to sneak around,” he answered, smiling. “And besides, your snoring kept me warm.”
He stretched his legs out, leaning his weight back on the ledge and crossing his ankles. “You look good in the sunlight,” he said.
We both laughed at that. Even in the dark of the night, I had been impressed at how handsome he was. Now, though, in the bright morning light, he was truly striking. His blond hair glistened, shining in the rays of sunshine that poured through the windows. His skin glowed with health and vitality. His muscles flexed under the thin leather of his armor.
But more than any physical appearance, his face reminded me of home. In fact, I felt almost embarrassed at seeing him now, dressed in his armor and weapons, standing upon the edge of a tall building with the sun reflecting off of him.
Yet, even so, it was impossible to ignore the connection between us. Our relationship had grown beyond the bounds of friendship. We had spent many nights together. I had watched him grow up and become a man. I loved him. I realized that again now, more clearly than ever before.
“Did you hear about what happened last night?” I asked, turning away from the window. “What really happened to Thorgrim?”
His eyes narrowed slightly at my words, as though he expected me to know already. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Tell me.”
I told him everything: How we had found the sword; how Thorgrim had died defending me; how Thorgrim’s body had disappeared from the church.
“Well, that doesn’t seem right,” he commented when I finished telling him my story.
“Yes, it does,” I replied. “This whole thing stinks to high heaven. You should have seen the body. It was awful.”
“So do we think that Thorgrim has been stolen?” he asked.
“If this were anyone else, I wouldn’t rule it out,” I said. “But I don’t think it can be true. Thorgrim was always so careful. No one would dare steal him.”
“Perhaps it is possible that he’s dead, and someone has taken his body,” Thorfast offered. “That might explain why his belongings went missing.”
“It could,” I agreed. “Or maybe whoever killed Thorgrim wanted to make sure we never saw his corpse. Maybe they want us to believe he’s vanished because of whatever happened last night.”
“Which means there will be no evidence,” Thorfast concluded.
“Exactly. The only real proof will be the dagger, assuming it still exists.”
“And what happens once we find it?” he asked. “Will we bring it back to Lord Einar? Or do we leave it behind for the authorities to discover? If we take it to the authorities, who knows if we’ll get the justice we deserve? And if we return it to the killer, it may mean the death of our friend. Which path makes the most sense?”
I sighed. My mind was racing, but I didn’t feel like answering any questions just yet. Instead, I turned my gaze to the city around us. Above us, the sky was clear blue, the sun shining brightly, sending beams of light into every nook and cranny.
The buildings stood like pillars of stone, their roofs topped with red tiles. Their walls were painted white, and the cobblestone streets were lined by trees planted in straight rows. The air was clean and sweet, filled with the scent of flowers and grass.
The city was beautiful, and I wondered how such a place had come to exist. Here, surrounded by beauty, I understood the pain of loss. For all the joy I had experienced in life, I also knew the pain of losing something precious.
As much as I enjoyed being here with my brother, I couldn’t help thinking of the time ahead without Thorgrim. He would not live long, and soon I would have to say goodbye.
My stomach rumbled loudly then, reminding me that it hadn’t eaten since yesterday. But it wasn’t hungry, I decided. It was empty of anything except regret and worry. So instead, I walked over to the window and looked down at the street below, where men and women moved about, oblivious to us.
Children ran through the streets, laughing, while older children played stickball or hopscotch. A woman in a yellow dress carried an infant strapped across her chest. Two young boys raced past, kicking balls. One boy threw the ball toward a girl who chased after it, catching it with ease. She smiled at them, and they did the same. All of them seemed happy.
Suddenly, a loud crack echoed throughout the room, and a beam of sunlight broke free from its prison, bursting forth in a spray of brilliant light. From inside the splinters flew, piercing my flesh, and I cried out in pain, falling backward onto the floor.
Thorfast rushed to my side. His face was pale, and I noticed that blood seeped from his nose. When I touched the wound on his cheek, it came loose in my fingers, revealing a deep gash under his skin.
“You’re hurt!” I exclaimed, pulling away. “Let me see.”
He shook his head. “Don’t touch it,” he said. “Not until you wash your hands first. Let me get some water.” He hurried off to the kitchen.
While I waited for him, I leaned against the wall. Something struck me, a realization I’d been ignoring, something I needed to address before things got worse.
We had come too far now to turn back. We had come too far to simply abandon Thorgrim’s body, or let the killers walk away. Yet we had no idea where they might be hiding, or even how many there were.
Even if we managed to capture one of them alive, we wouldn’t know which one was responsible, unless we captured everyone involved. This meant killing people. Not the kind of thing you do when you’re trying to avoid getting yourself arrested.
As much as I hated the idea, I felt we had to try to catch the perpetrators unawares before they were killed again. In order to achieve this, I realized we would need to act fast. Before the sun set on the day. Otherwise, we might never learn who was responsible for Thorgrim’s murder.
When Thorfast returned, he held up a wooden cup filled with water. “Here, drink this,” he instructed. “That should stop the bleeding.”
“Can you bandage it?”
His eyes widened. “Bandage it! No, wait, let me look.” He pulled away the cloth he used to wrap the water, peered at the cut, then slapped a hand to his mouth. “Oh, God. Look at that! You’re lucky you didn’t hit an artery. What happened?”
“It was just a beam of sunlight,” I said, shaking my head. “A sudden burst of brilliance pierced my skin, and I fell backward.”
But I could tell he thought differently. He was looking at me in disgust, as though I’d done something wrong. I had to change the subject quickly. “Tell me more about this mirror,” I said.
“What mirror?”
“This one, over there—the glass one. Can we use it to send messages? To other ships?”
“I don’t think so. There’s no way to open it, no handle. If someone else has found it, it must be sealed.”
“Then why is it here?” I asked. “If it’s locked and sealed, what good can it possibly do anyone?”
“I’ve seen mirrors like it before. They were often put into churches and cathedrals. People would go in, stand in front of it, and pray.”
“Pray?” I asked. “Like … for what?”
“For luck. For healing. The priests told people that by staring at their reflection in the glass, they would find answers to questions and problems. Some believed it worked, others not.”
I stared at the glass. How could staring into a piece of glass help answer any question? I supposed that in ancient times when knowledge was hard-earned and rare, people would have sought answers from anywhere they could.
And yet I still wondered how such a device could help us. But maybe I did understand, in some small way. It wasn’t a magical solution to our problem; instead, it offered us another weapon, one we hadn’t considered before. One we could wield in place of violence.
And if that failed, well, at least it gave me something to stare at while I awaited death.
The End