Page 18 of The Viking in the Vault
My focus is on the way forward.
We pass another collapsed section of the archive, the rubble blocking off what looks like an auxiliary chamber. Ragnar stops, his hand brushing my shoulder as he pulls me back gently. He steps forward first, testing the stability of the ground before waving me onward. His caution is surprising—it’s clear he’s taking no chances with me.
“Thanks,” I mutter, even though I know he can’t understand me.
He glances back, his lips twitching into the barest hint of a smile before he turns away.
The silence between us is heavy but not uncomfortable, filled with the soft crunch of our footsteps on the frosted ground and the occasional sniff from Fenrik. The tunnels seem to stretch on forever, each turn looking more like the last, and a creeping sense of unease settles over me.
But then, up ahead, I catch a faint glimmer of something—light reflecting off polished metal. My pulse quickens, hope flaring in my chest. “There,” I say, pointing toward the faint glow. “That could be something.”
Ragnar follows my gaze, his eyes narrowing as he steps past me to take the lead. He moves with purpose, his shoulders tense, and I find myself trailing after him without hesitation. Fenrik darts ahead, his tail wagging furiously.
When we finally reach the source of the light, I realize what it is—a partially intact lab, the door hanging ajar and the interior faintly illuminated by emergency lights. Relief floods through me, and I quicken my pace, brushing past Ragnar to step inside.
“We might actually have a chance now,” I whisper, half to myself.
I press inside before he can go first and destroy any active technology.
I find myself in a room I’ve never been in before–a historical exhibit, from the looks of it, with a few artifacts in protective casing that they’ve pulled out of the ice cores. I recognize modern Skoll all over the place, though I can’t read it without my translator, and I realize we must be in the archaeology lab. That means we’re getting closer to the surface, thank God. I search for a comms panel that’s actually working, which means I don’t notice as Ragnar steps inside with me.
At least, I don’t notice him until he inhales a sharp breath.
He’s looking down at an ancient scroll, surrounded by decaying weapons, bones, and jewelry. He reaches out andgrazes his fingers over the display. I join him, looking down at it, then back up at him.
“You recognize this?” I ask.
He barely acknowledges me.
I look back down at the display, and when I touch it too, language options appear. I pick out English from the list, frowning.
“A Chronicle of the Lost Expeditions,” I murmur. “Translation courtesy of Vesta Iverzoll…oh, Ves! Okay.”
I skim over the text, continuing to read softly to myself.
“‘We sent our finest warriors out amongst the sea of stars, far beyond the Skoll Wilds, in search of new worlds and allies in our war against the Boreans,’” I read. “‘The way was dangerous. Many perished. And many more were lost forever. The brave souls aboard the warship Stormcaller sent a distress signal, but were never found. We praise them for their sacrifice.’”
Ragnar shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut. Fenrik whines and nudges his hand, but Ragnar completely ignores the skarnhound, looking at me instead. He gestures to the scroll, then to himself.
My eyes widen.
“You…you were part of this?” I ask, pointing at the scroll and then at him. My heart pounds as I glance between him and the display piecing it together. The ancient clothes, the extinct skarnhound, the language my translator couldn’t process. It all fits.
We’ve found all kinds of things in the ice cores…artifacts, flora, even fauna.
Who’s to say there wasn’t a man in there?
I step back, stunned, my mind racing as I try to process what this means. For him, for me…for everything. God, the person who will be most excited is Ves–they’re a historian, they study these guys.
They probably even speak his language.
But as I’m getting more excited–standing here with a piece of living history–Ragnar’s breathing grows heavier. His shoulders rise and fall as his gaze sweeps over the artifacts. His hand drops from the display case to his hip, and I stumble further away when he pulls a blade the length of his forearm from its scabbard.
“Ragnar,” I say, putting my hands up. “What are you–”
He doesn’t brandish it at me, just holds it up to the display case–and I realize it matches one of the swords in the case perfectly, right down to the filigree along the hilt. His hands shake and he drops the sword to the floor with a clatter, stumbling back.
My first instinct is to run, but I can’t leave him like this. Not when he’s clearly spiraling. He scares me, I can’t communicate with him…but I can see he’s going through something.
