Nika Graves hurried through the museum, headed for the special gallery. The last guided tour of the day for the traveling exhibit was scheduled to start in just a few minutes, and she had promised Tamara that she would be there. A long meeting with the museum docents had made her late... again.
She reached the velvet rope just before the guard snapped it shut, closing off the exhibit for the day. She saw Tamara waiting by the massive wooden gate that marked the entrance to the display, and her friend smiled when she approached.
“About time you got here! I thought you were going to leave me all alone with these Vikings.”
They were as different as two women could be. Tamara was blonde and blue-eyed, but with an edgy style that hinted at her job as a bartender on the rough side of town. Nika was lithe and elegant, with long, flame-red hair and bright green eyes. Her style was more conservative. Despite their differences, they had been friends for years.
The exhibit was on loan from the Royal Museum of Stockholm, and it featured priceless artifacts recently discovered in the remains of a Viking ship burial. The wooden gate that Tamara was standing beneath was a replica of two dragon boat figureheads. The dragons roared silently above them as they entered the gallery.
Nika had always been fascinated by the Vikings, and having this exhibit in her museum was a personal thrill. As the assistant curator, she was delighted to have the opportunity to present her passion, Nordic history and mythology, to the general public. She hoped that people enjoyed the exhibit as much as she did.
Tamara’s reactions would be her guidepost. Her friend was not a stupid woman, but she had a tendency toward flightiness that verged on the annoying. She had virtually no sense of history and certainly would never have studied it on her own. If the exhibit could grab and keep her attention, then Nika could rest assured that the general public would enjoy it, too.
They strolled through the temperature-controlled boxes in which the artifacts were displayed. The glass was specially treated to block UV rays, protecting the fragile treasures within. They were also bullet proof and airtight, which would prevent accidental damage or excessive moisture from causing the objects to decay.
“This is weird,” Tamara said.
“What is?”
“I can’t believe that they buried a whole boat.”
“It was common for a Viking chieftain or person of note to be buried in his or her boat. It was a mark of status and a great honor.”
She looked at the label on the case before them. Inside, the Swedes had created a perfect scale miniature replica of the burial as it was first laid in the ground. She pointed.
“See, the man they buried holding the sword - he was a very important person in his day. It’s just a shame that they haven’t been able to figure out his name.”
“But why the boat?”
“He’d need it in the afterlife.”
“But he’s dead.”
“He would live again.”
Tamara shook her head. “It still seems like a waste of a perfectly good boat.”
She laughed. “To each their own.”
They continued through the rooms of the gallery, following a path that roughly matched the outline of the longboat that had been the unnamed chieftain’s coffin. In the very center of the exhibit, in a darkened area illuminated only by carefully-aimed spotlights, was the central artifact.
It was a Viking sword, the one that had been buried in the cold hands of its master all those centuries before. The lighting was arranged so that the runes etched into the blade could be seen, the play of shadow making the symbols appear more clearly. Nika was well versed in Futhark, both Elder and Younger, but she could not make out the words that the runes were spelling.
“That,” Tamara said, “is one hell of a pig-sticker. That bad boy would leave a mark.”
Nika smiled but did not reply. Instead, she leaned closer to the glass, peering at the runes.
A deep, resonant voice spoke behind her. “I don’t think you’ll be able to read it.”
She turned, surprised, to see a tall man in a black suit, his blond hair perfectly coifed. He had an earpiece in one ear with a curling wire leading down into his suit coat, and he looked for all the world like a member of the Secret Service. He smiled.
“I’m sorry to startle you, Miss Graves.”
Tamara drifted to stand behind the man, but where Nika could see her face. She mouthed ‘wow,’ to the embarrassed curator, who quickly turned her attention back to the stranger.
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Mr. …”
“Thorvald,” he said, offering a handshake. She accepted, and her hand vanished into his huge grip. “Erik Thorvald.”
“A pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise.” He smiled. “I’m an attaché from Stockholm.”
“Oh! Then this is your baby,” she said, gesturing to the sword.
He looked at the ancient weapon with a jaundiced eye. “Not mine, I assure you.”
“Has anyone been able to determine what those runes say?”
Thorvald looked back to her with a smile. “No. Not yet. Some scholars in Sweden believe that it might be encoded, which of course makes no sense at all.”
She laughed. Behind Erik’s back, Tamara was waving good bye, winking at her friend as she backed away. She put her hand to her face, mimicking a phone in the universal sign for ‘call me,’ and then vanished into the crowd.
Her companion looked over his shoulder. “It seems your friend has abandoned you.”
“Well, history isn’t really her thing.”
“Too bad.” He looked around the room, a flash of sudden anxiety in his clear blue eyes. His tone abruptly changed from warm and friendly to all business. “Please enjoy the exhibit. I have to -”
A black blur erupted through the floor, shattering marble tiles and scattering hapless bystanders like autumn leaves. Erik flung Nika behind him, dropping into a fighter’s crouch.
The black blur coalesced into a tall woman, her white-blond hair pulled back into a wild tangle of braids and beads. She was clad in a black cat suit, and when she saw Nika’s protector, she laughed.
Alarms blared. People screamed and ran from the gallery. The woman looked at Nika, then back at Erik.
“Which one are you protecting?” the newcomer asked him. “The sword or the girl?”
“Both.”
The woman laughed, revealing long, feral teeth that should never have been in a human face. Nika shrank back, retreating toward the fire extinguisher.
“You can’t do both. I would have thought you’d have learned that by now.”
The woman in black lunged at Erik, and they tumbled together across the broken gallery floor. Nika ran to the extinguisher and pulled the pin. When she turned around, the Swedish man and the fanged intruder were facing off, trading punches and kicks. The strange woman landed a roundhouse kick to Erik’s head, and when the man reeled, Nika blasted his opponent.
The intruder pulled away, hissing, and Erik scrambled to get out of the jet of chemicals. Security guards raced into the gallery from the main body of the museum, and the woman in black leaped onto the display case holding the sword. Erik produced a knife from under his suit coat and threw it at her, and the blade struck her in the shoulder.
The woman shouted in rage and pain, then punched her good hand through the reinforced glass of the display case. She wrenched the sword free of its setting as Erik flung himself onto the case, as well, trying to grapple her. The sword came up, and the runes on its blade began to glow an eerie green. Erik grabbed the blade and screamed. The sound of sizzling and the smell of burned flesh filled the air.
One of the guards pulled his pistol and started firing. The bullets bounced off of the thief, but one hit Erik in the thigh, a grazing wound. The woman saw his injury and laughed.
She pushed Erik off of the case and spat at him, “Osterkligr veithimathr!”
The guard fired again, and the woman shot up through the air, passing through the roof of the museum like a missile. Nika dropped the extinguisher and ran to Erik’s side.
“Oh my God,” she said, her head whirling. “You’re hurt.”
He turned his face away from her and pulled himself to his feet. Blood stained the leg of his trousers, and he was cradling his left hand. The palm was blackened and cracked. “It’s nothing.”
“You’re bleeding,” she protested.
“What the hell was that?” one of the guards demanded.
Erik took a deep breath and turned at last to face them. “Just a thief.”
“Just a thief? I just saw her fly!”
The Swedish man brushed past the guard and hurried out of the gallery. “I don’t have time for this.”
Nika raced after him. “Mr. Thorvald! Erik!”
He did not wait for her, and she had to run to catch up with him. He was slowed by the injury to his leg, which was in her favor, but she still had to kick off her heels to run faster.
“Mr. Thorvald, wait.”
He turned on her. “I do not have time to wait! Go away, Miss Graves!”
“Where are you going? You need a doctor.”
Erik growled in his throat. “I need to get that sword.”
“I can help you.”
He shook his head and started walking again. “No, you can’t.”
“I saw her fangs!” He stopped short, and she caught his arm. “I am responsible for that sword, too. You can’t just leave me out of this!”
“The Rune Sword is my responsibility!” He pulled his arm free. “I am telling you for the last time, Miss Graves. Stay out of this. You will get hurt if you persist.”
“If I don’t, I lose my job and the museum loses millions of dollars.”
The Swede snorted. “Money and jobs are nothing if I don’t get that sword back.”
A woman in a smart gray business suit emerged from a side gallery, and Erik stopped when he saw her. She spoke to him rapidly in something like Swedish, but different. Erik responded, clearly ashamed. The new woman snapped at him, then seemed to notice Nika for the first time.
“I apologize, Miss Graves,” she said. “I am Astrid Sigurdsdottir. We spoke on the telephone.”
Nika remembered. Sigurdsdottir was the curator from Stockholm, the one who had negotiated the terms that had brought the Viking display to Central City in the first place. “Yes, I recall. I’m so sorry about the sword. We will get it back, I promise you.”
Astrid fixed Erik with a harsh look. “We had better.”
“We have to get Mr. Thorvald to a doctor,” Nika told Astrid. “He’s hurt.”
She Swedish woman looked at Erik and smiled strangely. “Hurt? No. He’s not hurt. Are you hurt, Mr. Thorvald?”
He pulled himself up straighter, almost like a soldier coming to attention. “No. I’m not hurt.”
“But your hand -” Nika grabbed his left wrist and pulled his hand away from his side.
The burn was gone.
Erik pulled free of her grip without rancor. “As I said, I am unhurt.”
Astrid interposed herself between them, slipping an arm around Nika’s elbow. “Come, we must see to the rest of the exhibit. I hope there is no damage to the other artifacts…”
As Astrid pulled her away, Nika looked over her shoulder. Erik was already sprinting for the front door.