Leviathan (4 page)

Connor suspected that they had initiated classified research with the sphere, but he didn't ask questions. He didn't know, and
he didn't want to know. He was determined to do his job and finish his three-year contract as easily as possible. Then he'd leave this godforsaken place and buy a nice house and a good-sized chunk of land where he could live in peace. Maybe Montana, he thought often enough. Or Wyoming. Or maybe he would return to Kentucky, where he was born. But it would be a place where his family could live safely. Yet the thought of safety only reminded Connor again of Grimwald, and how this dark and dismal place had never truly known any peace at all. And probably never would.

Norway's doomed attempt to colonize the island had failed miserably, partly because of Grimwald's harsh w
eather and inhospitable terrain, but also because of the superstitious dread Norwegians and Icelanders reserved for it. The Scandinavians passionately labeled the island as haunted and cursed and with unbending stubbornness refused to settle it.

Many even said that Nor
way's impetuous attempt to colonize the island ten years ago failed more from a soul-draining sense of doom than the actual difficulties of surviving. And until that settlement had collapsed beneath the relentless haunting terror possessed by Grimwald, the only inhabitable structure had been a mysterious and formidable tower founded on the far north side, a smooth, cylindrical fang of imperial white granite that erupted from a slate-red peninsula.

The tower, eternally white with frost, was mysteriously constructed in A.D. 900 by a single, unknown Viking warrior who had defied all curses and fears and demons to make a grim stand on Grimwald's hostile shore. Although the nameless warrior's fate was never known, was ultimately claimed by the dark
night vales of Grimwald's forests, his tower had endured—a lasting testament to his iron courage and spirit and strength.

Built by hand from hand-hewn blocks of solid granite, each weighing over a quarter ton, the tower was as impervious to storm after a thousand years as it had ever been. Upon observation its strength was obvious, for it had clearly been built to stand forever, as if created for the purpose of resisting the cold, cold hate of winter until the world's winter finally passed.

Now, Connor knew, the tower served as the curious home of Thor Magnusson, a mysterious, red-bearded Norwegian giant who was a scholar of literature, poetry, and language. Although Thor was, in truth, a gigantic, colossal brute of a man, towering almost eight feet and possessing unimaginable physical strength, he was also a compassionate companion. Connor had learned quickly that though his tower was cold and lonely, Thor possessed a generous, warmhearted soul.

After they had become friends, Connor had listened for long, long nights as Thor eloquently recited passages of Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, translating them into perfect English and in turn drawing parallels in effortless German, Italian, and a host of European languages.

Thor's grasp of history and philosophy, also, was comprehensive and unforced, as though he had learned the lessons from heart and drew genuine pleasure in remembering them. It had not taken long for Connor to decide that Thor had been something of a teacher, or even a scholar, before he began his lonely sojourn on Grimwald.

Connor thought often of it—such a loving, strong, gentle giant of a man so mysteriously exiled to this lonely Arctic island where there was only storm and ice and hateful cold. And although Connor realized that Thor's habitation of the tower was a strange and disturbing thing, he never had the heart to ask him the reason for it.

Nor had Thor offered to tell.

Chapter 4

Crimson shadows walked stiffly through the reddish glare of the midnight sun, the summer sun, moving with organized purpose across the wide-ranging Ice Station.

Cloaked in a white bearskin, Thor sat motionless upon his stallion, Tanngrisner, gazing over the facility from the mountain-top. His long red hair hung loose, falling beneath the polar fur that draped his mammoth chest and shoulders. His beard was tinged with wide flakes of snow that struck and froze beneath his careful, searching eyes.

Only a moment ago, missing nothing that his gaze passed, Thor saw his good friend, Jackson Connor, descending into the cavern. He had been closely
accompanied by the military commander.

Yes, Thor thought, the soldier called Chesterton.

He frowned.

He had traveled all day across Grimwald Island, covering the forty-mile ride from the north coast to the south on Tanngrisner's strong legs, riding the dry glacier riverbeds. He had passed beneath the mountainous highlands, the dark
night vales of woodland concealed from the sea as he searched—for what he did not know—only to find the end of his journey here, at this mysterious Ice Station that he still did not fully understand.

Always, always this had been to him a place of cruel machines ravaging the frozen earth, of dark planes landing in the night to
deliver mysterious equipment, of harsh spotlights piercing the night snow and cold breath piercing the light.

Thor remembered the Ice Station's creation, only five years past. He remembered how he had sat stiffly upon this very ridge, stoically ignoring the cold while he watched them labor at its birth, wondering at what manner of tower they were building to God. And night after bitter night he had been ceaselessly mystified. Nor did he know why it troubled him so.

An answer to his uneasiness had never come, though in the end he had found an unexpected friend, a good friend, a friend that a good man might know once in a lifetime.

Almost a year ago it had happened, at the beginning of early light as Thor dozed tiredly beneath a thick overhang of rock, forgetful of his watch, a small fire kindled at his feet. Coming with strangely quiet steps up the mountain path, the man had surprised him. Almost before Thor could open his eyes, the man was poised, motionless, close beside him.

Shaggy red hair frosted with night, large frame cloaked in his white bearskin, Thor had risen titanically to his feet, towering a high head and shoulders over the man who had, at first, seemed as startled as Thor himself.

Silent, they stood face to face in the harsh white light. Thor had waited, grim and even embarrassed that his hiding place had been discovered. He had not known what to say, or what to expect.

Calmly the man had glanced at Thor's sleeping bag and the large, scoped rifle laid to the side. Then he had focused again on Thor, taking his time. Finally he turned his head to look down over the installation, nodding at the view.

“
Doing some hunting?” he had asked, not seeming to notice, or care, about Thor's discomfort.

And it was in that moment that Thor had measured the spirit before him, had somehow sensed that indefinable quickening that fast-joined the hearts of good men, that mysterious force that forged friends in the chaos of war or brought strangers together in strange lands as each somehow knew and understood the other with little more than a glance. And Thor had decided that the man
commanded a solid heart, possessed a soul as discerning and knowing as his own.

“
Yes,” Thor replied, also smiling, gazing down on the man from his gigantic height. “I hunt here often.”

Nodding, the man extended his hand.
“Yeah, well, as far as I’m concerned, you can hunt any place you want. They don't own this island. They just own what's inside the fence.”

Thor had laughed, warmed.

“Connor,” the man had said. His name was Jackson Connor.

Compared to Thor's mythic height and stature, Connor was as nothing. But in truth he was of average height and build. And he carried himself with a quiet solidness, like a man who has survived hard years by the strength of his back and will. His smooth-shaven face was brown-we
athered, leathered by the freezing wind. But his most prominent feature was the solid, craggy edges of his chin, forehead, and jaw—edges that seemed to reflect a hardened attitude to everything around him.

At times, Thor could easily see him as suspicious, unfriendly, and even hating of the world. But Thor could also see him as someone who simply wanted a bitter world to be different, but had learned he could not change it so had crusted himself over with a bitter armor instead. Thor knew, almost from the first, that the man was something else inside, something softer and more understanding and somehow far
gentler than his hardened exterior would ever reveal. Even as he, himself, was.

He had a wife and a son, he said, answering Thor's questions, which grew friendlier and more intimate as an hour of easy conversation passed. And yes, he said, they lived in one of the homes inside the installation. His son, Jordan, was four years old, he said in a proud father's voice that told Thor even more. His wife's name was Beth, and his eyes grew soft and comfortable as he mentioned her. She also was employed by Stygian Enterprises, as a civilian supervisor of the groundside Communications Center.

“Come on down to the house,” Connor had said at the last, seeming to tire of the relentless, bracing wind that Thor rarely noticed anymore. “It's cold up here. And Beth will want to meet you.” He laughed. “If we're nice enough to her, she might even make us some coffee.”

Thor had glanced at the installation.
“They will allow me inside the perimeter?”

“
Yeah, they'll let you in,” Connor replied, not seeming to care about security. “I'll tell whoever's interested that you're cleared. The top part of the base isn't a big deal, anyway. It's just the underground section that's off-limits.” He shook his head, looking out over the Ice Station. “Yeah, they're doing some kind of research down there ...”

Thor focused on him.
“I know this island, Connor. I have been here for many, many years. And I know this: There is nothing in that cavern but darkness.” He waited. “Nothing good can come from it.”

Connor had frowned before he shook his head.
“Probably not, Thor.” He stared a moment, silent. “But those decisions are beyond my pay grade. I just work here.”

And so it began—a friendship where Thor would descend often from the mountain, bellowing greetings to the installation's ground personnel who seemed to relish their boring routines being broken by the appearance of this boisterous, gigantic Viking-shape with red hair and beard flowing and cloaked in a white bearskin. Eagerly welcomed inside to shatter the monotony, Thor would give children and women long rides around the compound on Tanngrisner's broad back, fearlessly and tunelessly singing Nordic dirges that carried without restraint to the far side of the perimeter. Eventually he would dramatically sweep out again into a long sunset, waving a dramatic, theatric farewell.

Connor and Beth had laughed at the antics, and Jordan loved him, content to sit for hours on his tree-trunk leg as Thor created spellbinding tales of great adventures, of legendary heroes of old and their ancient battles with mythic beasts. Or of frightening, epic journeys by men who dared to venture to mysterious lands where they discovered magical rings and fantastic treasures, hidden on the far side of darkness. Then he would, as ever, leave with the red dawn that never seemed to truly depart.

Memories...

Sleet slashed him and Thor winced.

A sea wind whispered, rising from the ice tide over the edge of the blackened ridge, and the cold brought Thor again to the present. He blinked against the dark tide, focusing his mind once more. He felt a night wind pass through his spirit and perceived a fear that disturbed him, a fear that made him sense that something ... that something had ended ...

Ice-green eyes hard against the wind, Thor wondered at the sensation. Then he grimly turned his mind from it before it gained a foothold in his soul, before it corrupted him with fear. He knew deep in his heart what was coming; yes, coming beneath the wind and the darkness and the sea. Knew it as surely as he knew his own life, and death.

“
Come, Tanngrisner,” he frowned, easing the proud stallion forward. “Let us go down and see our friend. One last time ...”

After tiredly shedding his cold weather gear at the bottom of the elevator shaft, Chesterton set off at what seemed a familiar pace, walking the brightly illuminated alloy grill that networked the cavern. Wordless, Connor fell in behind him.

It was a long journey, and Connor took notice that never once did Chesterton look up at the fantastic, inverted forests of stalactites, the brilliant white gypsum columns, or fist-sized calcite cave pearls that filled the far recesses of the floor. One hour later they reached the Observation Room, located beside the deepest cavern.

“
Remember,” Chesterton said, staring intently, “just do your job, Connor. Don't mess with the control matrix. Don't mess with anything at all. This room is as classified as it can get.”

Connor shook his head as he stepped onto the dull, polished floor. A thick steel door was open, propped against the wall by a chair. But as he entered the room he looked up, abruptly pausing.

Though it had been cleaned, the room showed obvious signs of a fantastic explosion. Cautiously, Connor took a light-footed step into the room, as if he were walking over a live wire. He glanced at Chesterton, now standing quietly in the center, staring grimly at the flame-blackened paneling.