God Of Thunder. Alex Archer

Norse warrior clambered up from the pit. With the rain falling, the earth had turned to greasy black mud. The man was stained with mud and blood. Three thin stakes pierced his body, letting Skagul know the bottom of the pit had been lined with them.

      A single arrow flew across the distance and struck the Norseman in the face. The warrior stumbled and went down to his knees. The arrow protruded from one of his eyes through the opening in his helm. He reached for the arrow jutting from his face, then he simply rolled over and vanished once more into the pit.

      Curonians charged from the trees. Their bowmen fired arrows over their heads that struck three of the surviving Norsemen.

      “Back to the ship!” Skagul yelled. “Back to the ship!”

      As undermanned as they were, he didn’t know if they would be successful in getting away. He ran, struggling through the brush.

      Redbeard and the Curonians pursued, but they were temporarily slowed by the pit they’d built for defense. Occasional arrows slipped through the forest.

      Skagul never slowed, but he heard the thump of heavy footsteps closing on him and knew who it was. Lightning flashed overhead and thunder pealed. Throwing a foot out in the slippery sand of the beach, Skagul slid forward and managed to twist his body at the same time. He brought the war ax around in a flat arc aimed at Redbeard’s midsection.

      The amber hammer blocked the ax. Metal clanged as thunder pealed again.

      Surprised and more wary, Skagul stepped back and raised his ax in a defensive stance. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Curonian bowmen put shafts into the backs of his men who’d made it to the sea. The Norsemen fell. The survivors of the first wave turned and charged the Curonians, unwilling to be shot down like dogs or taken prisoner. They were slaughtered one by one.

      Several of the Curonians surrounded Skagul. They had arrows nocked back to their ears. At that range they couldn’t miss.

      Redbeard held up a hand. Blood stained his wounded leg. He spoke in the Curonian language, obviously keeping them from loosing their shafts. To Skagul he said, “I’ve told them they can’t kill you unless I say so.”

      “You’d better kill me,” Skagul replied. He was afraid, but his pride wouldn’t let him admit that. He’d always believed he would die in battle, not like a deer run to the ground by hunters.

      Redbeard looked at the dead Norsemen lying on the ground around them. “I would prefer not to if I didn’t have to. We’ve already caused the death of too many of our brethren.”

      “We?” Skagul scoffed.

      Redbeard’s face darkened. “You chose to be greedy.”

      “And those men aren’t your brethren.”

      “I’ve not always lived among the Curonians,” Redbeard said.

      “Where do you hail from?” Skagul asked. He pushed away the fear and tried not to acknowledge the cold that bit at him with sharp teeth.

      “Birka.”

      Skagul nodded. Birka was an island in Lake Malar. “I’ve been there. I come from Jorvik.”

      Redbeard let out a breath. “I could demand payment from your family for your return.”

      The offer was a true one, and Skagul knew then that his unwilling host was a Northman at heart. Mannbaetr reflected a man’s value in his tribe, and it was different for each individual. Even if a man killed another man in a fight, he wasn’t put to death as he would be in some cultures. Instead, the killer had to pay the mannbaetr everyone agreed on.

      No one was put to death except for adultery, treason or stealing. But the worst punishment that could be doled out to a tribe member was banishment from the community.

      Thinking about that, Skagul thought he had leverage that he could use. “They won’t accept a demand from someone who’s been banished.”

      “I wasn’t banished,” Redbeard stated. “In my homeland, I was a jarl.”

      The declaration surprised Skagul. What was a jarl, a man close to a king, doing living with the Curonians?

      The storm raged overhead. Lightning blazed through the sky and leached the color from the world for a moment. The thunder rolled in over the sound of the waves.

      Skagul didn’t want to be ransomed back to his village. He wouldn’t accept anything less than going back as a champion. Taking advantage of the lull, he threw himself at Redbeard.

      Redbeard knocked Skagul’s ax from his hand, but Skagul had expected that. He kept rushing forward, planting his shoulder in his opponent’s chest and knocking him back. Before Redbeard could recover, two of the Curonian archers had loosed shafts.

      Skagul felt the arrows bite into his flesh at his back and side, but he knew from past experience that neither wound would prove fatal. He carried scars from worse encounters.

      Wrapping his hand around Redbeard’s face from behind, Skagul melded his body to that of his opponent. Skagul lifted his hook, reaching around in an effort to tear out Redbeard’s throat.

      Redbeard lifted the amber hammer. Skagul thought of Thor’s enchanted hammer. It had been crafted by the black elves on orders from Loki, his half brother. The hammer was the most powerful weapon the Norse gods wielded.

      Skagul thought the man was lifting the hammer to bring it into battle. It was going to be too little, too late. Skagul had torn out men’s throats before. Nothing would stop him.

      Then Skagul saw a tongue of lightning reach down from the dark sky and touch his hook before he could sink the tip into Redbeard’s throat. Skagul lost his hold and flew backward, paralyzed and in agony. He felt as if he were buried in red-hot coals.

      On his back in the wet sand, Skagul tried to rise but couldn’t. When he looked down, he saw that the lightning had blown off both his legs. Blood pumped from the stumps and was washed away immediately by the rushing tide.

      Redbeard came to him then. Sorrow showed on the man’s face.

      “It didn’t have to be this way,” Redbeard said.

      Skagul focused on the amber hammer. As he lay dying, he waited to see if the Valkyries would arrive to take him to Valhalla. After all, he’d died a brave death. But he feared they might not because his death hadn’t been a wise one.

      Only a fool would have tried to kill a god.

       1

      The four men approached Annja Creed like a well-oiled machine. Their actions told her they’d done this before.

      She didn’t break stride or change direction, heading toward the Mailboxes & Stuff store that she used to mail and receive packages. In her career as an archaeologist, she often received items for study and sometimes for authentication. A handful of museums and private collectors paid her to do certificates of authenticity on items they were putting on display.

      Although everything added up, payment for the certificates wasn’t much. However, the benefits included free access to those museums and private collections, and the goodwill of curators who were valuable sources of information when she was doing research.

      The four men moved with determination, without speaking. They were young and athletic, casually dressed and instantly forgettable. She guessed that they had military training.

      Everything’s already been planned, Annja thought. Adrenaline spiked within her, elevating her heart rate and her senses. She stayed within the flow of the lunch crowd flooding out of the buildings onto the street. Everyone was hurrying to try to make it back on time.

      She knew the four men had been waiting for her, and wondered if they had followed her from her loft. She hadn’t been home in weeks. A dig in Florida had consumed her and given her a brief respite from the dregs of winter that still hovered over New York. She’d quickly dropped off luggage and