Grendel's Curse

HIS HAND WAS in agony.

Lars slid into the driver’s seat of his car.

He had done his best to apply a field dressing and bind it up once he’d rinsed it in half a bottle of Evian water, but the blood still oozed from the wound and his was getting light-headed from the blood loss and lack of food. He needed to get it seen to but he couldn’t waste time with hospitals until he had done something with the broken sword. No one ever died from a cut hand, he told himself, refusing to think about septicemia and all of the bacteria that could have been festering down in that hole. First matter of the day was getting Nægling out of Thorssen’s reach; he’d worry about his hand and his shoulder and all of those little cuts after that. He was banking on Annja’s connections to get the broken sword out of the country until the election was over and it was no use to the politician. What happened after that was a bridge to be crossed when they came to it.

He couldn’t even say why he trusted her, but he did. It certainly wasn’t because of the quality of her TV show; that was pure unadulterated drivel for the most part. But while those around her showed no discernible ethics she’d not resorted to their cheap tactics. That was something, wasn’t it? It suggested a level of investment in the subject. It wasn’t just about making history sexy; it was about getting to the truth. He liked that about her. She wasn’t a sensationalist, and right now a level head was exactly what he needed. It almost didn’t matter if she looked at the sword and decided it wasn’t Nægling. It had been found in the barrow where the legends insisted Beowulf had been buried; people would believe what they needed to believe. It was Nægling if they wanted it to be Nægling.

More than anything, he wished they’d refused Thorssen’s money and found some other way to finance the dig. He wished he’d ignored the man’s promises to use his connections to secure the hitherto impossible permissions and just continued to bang his head against that metaphorical brick wall.

He looked at himself in the rearview mirror.

Lies. All lies.

He wouldn’t have traded the discovery for anything in the world. The only thing he really wished was that it wasn’t “dirty,” and Thorssen’s involvement made it feel dirty. “Beggars can’t be choosers,” he said to the man in the mirror, but even he didn’t believe him. He’d made a choice. He’d always known Karl Thorssen’s agenda; he’d just chosen to ignore it to get what he wanted out of the deal with this particular devil. It was only now that he was regretting it, because the sword so obviously served Thorssen’s agenda.

Which was why he was considering this plunder, faking an empty tomb rather than deliver the fabled sword into Thorssen’s hands. It was better to look like a fool than feed a fascist.

The two shards of the broken sword were on the backseat in a black garbage sack. It wasn’t the noblest manner of transportation, but it hid the contents from casual view.

He felt the slick, blood-wet bandage on his hand sticking to the leather of the steering wheel.

He’d already taken more painkillers than he should have, but they weren’t dulling the pain.

He pulled up onto a grass verge to check the dressing.

There was nothing he could do with it except unwrap it, teasing the gauze away from the bloody cut before it clotted into the wound, and wrap it again, hoping that would help. He could see the bone and the white of shorn ligaments where the strange plate had sliced clean through the heel of his hand. No wonder it hurt.

He switched on the radio but the news bulletin was still full of talk and speculation about the bombing at Thorssen’s rally and the last thing he wanted to do was think about Karl Thorssen so he turned it off again.

The roads were almost deserted, which was unsurprising given the hour and the remoteness of the barrow. He had been driving for another ten minutes before he noticed the car in his rearview mirror. It held back at first, but slowly closed the gap between them.

Lars Mortensen tried to concentrate on the road opening up before him, but he could only think about the car chasing him on the road behind.

5

Lars Mortensen slammed his foot down on the gas.

He really didn’t like the fact the car was riding his tail so hard; it was stupid and dangerous. If the joker wanted to pass, he should just pass. Conditions were good, the road wasn’t wet, and like most roads in Sweden it was wide because they were designed to be able to function as emergency runways for planes during wartime should the need arise. He knew the road well enough; there weren’t any tricky bends up ahead. He gestured in the rearview mirror for the guy to pass, but he didn’t: he just tucked in a foot or so behind Lars’s fender and gassed his engine intimidatingly even as Lars accelerated.

He watched the needle on the dial climb.

The sound of the engine changed as he shifted gears.

The black car behind maintained the same far-too-close distance.

There were two men in it, both staring straight ahead fixatedly. Staring at him. It wasn’t just his imagination; he could feel the heat of their eyes burning into him. It didn’t matter how hard he pushed the car, they maintained that same intimidating gap. This wasn’t just a couple of guys being jerks, either. Were they part of Thorssen’s mob? Was that it? Did he somehow know Lars was trying to spirit away his treasure?

Or was that just paranoia talking?

He took his foot off the accelerator and allowed the car to slow down slightly.

He didn’t want to hit the brakes—yet. Doing that would cause his lights to flare and tip his hand. Better they think he’s just a slow or erratic driver.

They slowed their pace to match his.

He gripped the wheel tighter. The pain in his hand increased fourfold with the added pressure. The salt from the sweat in the palm of his hand worked its way into the wound, stinging. He gritted his teeth against the swell of agony as his vision swam. He refused to black out, fighting to stay focused as he let the car drift toward the side of the road.

The engine began to strain, whining because it was in the wrong gear, threatening to stall out. He pushed in the clutch and it quit complaining, then slammed on his brakes, forcing the car behind him to pull out and maneuver around him or crash. It slid past at speed, the passenger glaring across at him as it did. The driver cut right across Lars’s path, forcing him to slam on the brakes again or plow into the side of them.

Thinking fast, he rammed the gearshift into reverse and tried to get out of there as the passenger door opened. His tires screeched, spitting rubber, and the engine stalled out. Lars twisted the ignition key, jamming down on the gas, only for it to sputter and die again.

The passenger walked toward him. He didn’t run. He was a brick wall of a man in a dark suit, a clone of every villain from every bad movie Lars had seen in the movies, but no less intimidating for it.

He leaned in and tapped on the window, his signet ring rattling on the glass.

Lars couldn’t move.

He couldn’t even check if the car doors were locked.

He was frozen in place by fear. There wasn’t a single muscle in his body that would obey him. It was all he could do to breathe.

It was the pain that finally broke through to end his paralysis. He turned the key over again, shaking like a leaf. The tapping was more forceful the second time it came and he heard a muffled, “You don’t want to do that, Mr. Mortensen,” as he fumbled with the key again. “Open up.”

Reluctantly, Lars opened the window a crack. It wasn’t exactly meeting the goon halfway, but he hoped it’d buy him a few seconds to think.

“Leave the key alone, Mr. Mortensen,” the goon said, leaning in close to the cracked window. By repeating his name he was laying down a none-too-subtle hint that he knew exactly who Lars was and what he was doing. “I think it might be a good idea if you turned around and went back to the site, don’t you?”

“Who are you?” Lars said. It came out more as a plea for knowledge than a demand.

“It doesn’t really matter who I am, does it? All that matters is that you don’t do anything stupid. Stupidity can be very dangerous for your health, Mr. Mortensen.”

The car started suddenly, catching Lars by surprise. His hands had been working at the key without him thinking about it.

“Don’t,” the goon said. One word, filled with menace.

That one word said it all.

Lars threw the car back into gear and stamped the gas to the floor, sending his car lurching back.

“You don’t want to do that,” the goon called out, still calm, still full of menace.

That was when Lars realized the driver hadn’t been sitting by idly twiddling his thumbs—even as he tried to peel away from the makeshift roadblock the driver of the black car floored the gas, fishtailing around in a crazy hand-brake turn, and rammed him full-on.

The impact threatened to drive Lars off the road.

The engine grunted and died.

The windshield shattered, showering Lars with fragments of glass.