The Saga of Dan

[Snap Wilson]

I wake up, freezing, cold air burning my lungs, bleary-eyed and hung over, staring up at snow-covered trees and a grey, cloudy morning sky. I sit up, my body aching from lying on hard, naked forest floor and wait, why the hell am I waking up outside? And where am I?

As much as it hurts, I try to recall what happened last night. I met some friends at Sparky's, our local watering hole. I talked to a cute girl, we had a couple of drinks... everything after that is foggy. I look around. Nothing but giant fir trees... are these fir trees? I don't know, I'm not a tree expert. They look like the biggest Christmas trees I've ever seen.

Pictured: some kind of trees.

I figure I passed out at some point and Bruce and Toby are playing some kind of prank on me, hiding somewhere a few yards away.

"Hello?" I shout, annoyed, and my head rings at the sound of my own yelling. "Ha ha, very funny, good joke, guys."

But it doesn't snow in Santa Monica, so they, what, drove four hours out to Mammoth? And then dragged me out into the middle of the woods? Those guys aren't that motivated or in any kind of shape to carry me more than a few yards, but I don't see a road nearby.

I check the back pocket of my jeans for my phone, thankfully still there, to look at GPS and see where the heck I am. It's battery life is at 15% and there's no signal, so I shut it off in case I need to use it later.

"Hello?" I shout again, and I can hear the fear ringing at my own voice. I have no idea where I am, I feel like crap, I'm nauseous, I'm dehydrated, I'm wearing nothing but a Sonic Youth t-shirt and jeans and it's so cold my teeth won't stop chattering and I might die of hypothermia because my friends decided to play a stupid joke on me. I check my pockets for anything that might be useful. Wallet, check, ID, credit cards and the spare cash I carry around accounted for. Car keys, check. Leatherman tool looped around my belt like a dork, check. I fish in my front pockets and find something crumpled up, a bar napkin with some writing on it.

"Welcome to your new life, Dan. Make the most of it. -- Sasha"

I stare stupidly at the cocktail napkin before stuffing it back in my pocket. Sasha, wasn't that the girl last night? A sharp pain splits my head as I try to remember, and survival instinct and rising panic kick in and spur me forward.

"HELLO? HELLO?" I start yelling despite the pain, walking forward, looking for signs of anything but trees and mountains and snow. If I stay here, I'm going to die. I need shelter, and food, and water. Is it safe to eat snow for the water? I think it's safe.

I hear a muffled shout in the distance, definitely human. Oh Jesus, oh thank God, I repeat to myself even though I'm the opposite of religious. I start heading towards the voices and hear the echo of multiple somethings trampling through the forest from a ways off.

"HELLO? HELLO? I NEED HELP!" I keep yelling. I break into a run, keeping waves of nausea at bay. I swear, I'm going to kill Bruce and Toby when I see them. More shouting in return, closer this time, although I can't make out what they're saying, and I hear the increased sound of trampling heading quickly towards me. That sounds like... horses? They ride horses out here? I come to a clearing when I see them come out of the trees.

Like these guys, but they're real and not actors on A&E and it's snowing and they're on horses. Look, use your imagination.

What the f**k.

 

[Snap Wilson]

Okay, let me back up. I'm Dan Hanson, 25-year old tech support analyst at a law firm in West Los Angeles. Hi, nice to meet you. I like fiddling around with computers, listening to rock music that was released before I was born, and playing pickup basketball. Go Clippers! We got Kawhi, we got PG, I really think we can win it all this year. (Ed. note: Dan disappeared a few weeks ago. Nobody tell him what happened.) That's me in the picture, but let's be real, I'm not anyone's Champion. If Snap didn't click that button I'm wearing some stupid cap and there's no way I was taking a picture in that cap. I'm no warrior, but I have to admit I look pretty dope in this armor. What else? "Analytic Atheist," heh, sure. I'm not French, though, but "Californian" wasn't an option and this is pretty close to what I look like anyway. I got a two-year degree in Computer Engineering at Cal Poly, not Stewardship, but I'm pretty good at math, so close enough. And yeah, no wife or girlfriend for that matter, thanks for pointing that out. Anyway, I spend most of the first part of this story pretty rattled and I'm not always like that, so I just wanted to step out, break the fourth wall a bit and say hey. Back to the story.

Note from Snap: This story will not be historically accurate. Just think of it as an alternate universe or something and go with it. Thanks!

-----------------------------------------------------------------

This is weird. This is very weird. They have to be shooting a movie out here, that's the only explanation.

"Hey guys, I'm really sorry to interrupt, but I'm lost out here and I can't get any service. Can you guys direct me to a phone?"

They're all staring at me in confusion, when one turns to the other and says something I don't understand. It's definitely not English. Maybe it's a foreign film crew? One guy reaches over his shoulder and pulls out a spear that definitely looks like more than a movie prop and suddenly there's a debate going on between them. What language is that? They seem tense, and suddenly I'm worried.

"Uh, does anyone speak English? Can anyone tell me where I am?"

They're ignoring me, arguing amongst themselves and the leader(?) suddenly says Carl over and over again. Who is Carl? I'm starting to think I might not be in California any more. They've arrived at a decision, and one of them gets down from their horse and draws his sword. Holy sh**.

"American!" I shout, not being able to think of anything else to say. "I'm American!" I hold my hands up in the universal pose of surrender, and sword guy starts yelling at me in The Language I Don't Understand, so I get down on my knees and he moves around behind me and kicks me, hard, down to my stomach and I suddenly realize these guys are not actors. He kneels down on my back and sheathes his sword, to my relief. Someone throws him some rope and he binds my wrists so hard I can feel the blood rush out of my hands. My adrenaline is spiking to the point I've forgotten that I'm freezing and hung over and everything else other than that I'm being arrested by Viking cops.

Some images are really fun to look up in Google.

The terror comes out as a hysterical giggle. This apparently makes Sword Guy angry, because he says something that sounds angry and punches me in the back of the head, and now I'm seeing stars and I feel like I'm going to throw up again. He pats me down and digs through my pockets, pulling out my phone, wallet, keys, looking at each item quizzically before tossing them to another guy who puts everything in the satchel. He pulls out the napkin with writing and brings it to the leader to show him.

"Aangle?" Sword guy asks and the leader mutters something about Carl again and they stuff it into the satchel with the rest of my stuff. Maybe Carl speaks English? He binds my leg and they throw me over the back of one of the horses and we're off. To see Carl, I hope.

A long and painful trip through the forest and we've arrived at wherever. There's one big long building that looks entirely made out of wood and a couple of smaller buildings that look like barns or something and men and women milling around doing chores, and some kids running around playing, swinging tiny wooden swords at each other and babbling, unsurprisingly at this point, in a language I don't understand. And there are goats. I hear a lot of dogs barking from somewhere, and it makes me nervous (I'm not a dog guy). Where am I? What is this place? Is this like the Viking version of an Amish community or something? Despite the rough treatment, I hope Carl can sort this out and I can make a call and charge my phone and maybe get some food and aspirin.

Only $525 a night on Valhalla B&B!

We approach the main building and Spear Guy pushes me off the horse and I slam into the ground, knocking the wind out of me. Buddy, wait until Carl hears about this. He cuts through the rope around my legs and hoists me up, pushing me roughly towards the main building. I can feel everyone staring at me. We head inside the door of the building and the rush of activity inside, men and women sweeping the expansive wooden floor, wiping down tables, cleaning armor, sharpening swords, etc. grinds to a halt as everyone stares at me. Everyone watches as we head towards one end of the hall towards a group of men talking quietly around a table. They all look up towards me, including one guy who I instinctively know must be the leader, mostly because he's dressed a little better than everyone else. This must be Carl.

You probably already guessed that his name isn't Carl.

"Hello, sir, do you speak English? I think there's been some sort of misunderstan--" One of my escorts punches me hard in my stomach and for the second time in ten minutes I feel all the air go out of me and the vomit that's been threatening to come out all morning expels on to the wooden floor. The guys I rode in with chat with the leader (who I will discover later is not named Carl) like nothing happened. They empty the satchel with my stuff onto the table (my cell phone screen cracks and I briefly wonder if AppleCare covers anything like this) and start pouring over everything. They seem uninterested in my phone, keys and wallet, moderately more interested in my driver's license with my picture on it and the bit of paper money I have, and entirely fascinated with my Leatherman tool. It takes Not Carl a bit to figure out how it works, but when he pulls out the small knife attachment and mimics stabbing motions, everyone breaks out in raucous laughter, and I now I know for sure he's the boss, because over-laughing at your boss's joke is something that transcends culture. Everyone gets serious when he looks at the note, and the words "spion" gets said more than once. Spy? They think I'm a spy? Do they think America is going to attack Viking Cosplay Land?

I must be on the right track because everyone is agitated now, yelling "spion" and I feel a dagger at my throat.

"No! No spion! I'm not a spy!" I say, closing my eyes, preparing for the worst.

Not Carl says the Viking version of "hold up" and then says something about Godi. The dogs outside start barking up a storm and I immediately stiffen up. Not Carl seems to notice, a hint of a smile at the corner of his lips. He says something about "hunds" and two of the men start dragging me off outside. Oh god, they're going to feed me to the hounds. That son of a b*tch. He realized I'm scared of dogs and thinks it's funny to kill me this way, being torn to pieces. Sure enough, we're headed towards a small structure that's basically a pen with a roof over it, and the barking coming from within gets more excited the closer we come to it. At this point, I wonder I start asking them to show some mercy and just run me through with a sword. One of the men opens the door and the other shoves me inside with a laugh. I hit the ground, the odor of dog crap filling my nostrils and making me want to heave all over again. The barking is insanely loud, bouncing off of everything. I look up, and the barks are replaced by growls and snarls. A dozen sets of fangs are bared at me. A dozen jaws leap forward to attack.

The fuzzy faces of terror!

 

[Snap Wilson]

Okay, so "attack" might be something of an exaggeration. The dogs growl and snap a bit but when I do nothing more but lie petrified on the ground trying not to piss myself, they give me a sniff and decide I'm not a threat, going back to milling about the kennel. I crawl to the corner with the least amount of poop and huddle up against the cold, eventually passing out from sheer exhaustion.

I wake up to the sound of the dogs going crazy again as two of Not Carl's soldiers approached the kennels.

"Hundesviller!" One of them calls out with a laugh, and I discern correctly he's talking to me. He gestures me out. It will take me a while to find out what "Hundsviller" means. Have to be honest, I don't like it.

It took me like half an hour to figure out to put in a custom nickname, please clap.

We trek up again into the main hall, and this time I'm not such a subject of interest. The crazy, dirty American is just part of the scenery now. I'm ushered into the Viking hall equivalent of an office, a place with some chairs and a table that has a giant map of what looks like Western Europe laid on top of it. There's some writing across each of the land masses and some of the oceans, and it looks faintly like the alphabet I recognize, but I can't understand any of it. A guy I don't recognize sits at one chair facing the entrance, with my stuff scattered in front of him, judging me carefully as I walk in, and I'm shoved into a chair opposite him. Not Carl, whose name turns out to be Gudmundr, is there as well, staring at me impassively. He speaks to the other man, whose name I interpret to be Klas.

Klas is looking at my ID with my picture. He gingerly faces it towards me and points to my picture, and points to me.

"Yeah, that's me," I nod, and he seems to grasp the affirmative. "Dan. Dan Hanson."

"Hansson?" Gudmundr looks to his two men. "Hans?" They both shrug and shake their heads.

Klas looks at me again, running his fingers along the lines of text, looking at me inquiringly.

I snatch my ID from him, feeling the guards flinch behind me before Klas stops them with an upraised palm. I turn it toward him, drawing my finger along each line. "Dan Hanson. Date of birth, January 25, 1995. Address: 2482 West Montclair Drive, Santa Monica, California. Driver's license!" I slap it down in front of him. I pick up the dollar bills. "Dollars... money!" I rub my fingers together to try to get the message across.

A light bulb goes off in his head as he stares at the paper. "Gelt?"

"Yes! Gelt!" That sounds right. "I give you gelt!" I yell, gesturing my meaning. "I just need... a phone." These people have never heard of a phone. "American! American?" Blank stares. I point to the Western end of the map, west of France and trail my finger off west a ways, off the table before stabbing the air. "America!" I point to myself. "American!"

That did it. They're all staring at me with wide eyes. They get it now. Then they start laughing. I don't get it. Gudmundr picks up a little wooden boat figurine and pushes it along the map, retracing my path and let's the boat clatter to the floor. He looks at me expectantly and crosses his arms.

It takes me a minute. These idiots think the world is flat. A sinking feeling starts to rise up from the pit of my stomach.

"Where..." I gesture all around us. "Where are we?" I point at the map. Klas understands. He points to the middle of the land mass near the top. Scandinavia. His finger puts us somewhere in Sweden, I think. I curse myself for not knowing geography better. It's impossible that I've wound up in Sweden overnight, but I've stopped questioning the impossibility of things.

Gudmundr shakes his head and tells Klas something, gesturing at me dismissively. He thinks I'm crazy. He wants to take me behind the Viking woodshed and put an axe through my skull. Klas is arguing for my life, gesturing at my stuff. He pulls apart the leathermen. That's right, a crazy person doesn't have stuff like this. Klas is practically begging now, gesturing at the map, pointing to England, at the writing scrawled on it and looking at me expectantly.

"I can't read..." I start to look around at them hopelessly and then I see it. Klas's eyes wide, full of hope. Gudmundr, anger rising like a volcano. No, not anger. Frustration. And I get it now. They can't read it either. This isn't their map! They took it. Stole it. Pillaged it, whatever. And they don't care about the map, they care about the words. They can't read the words. And they have a bunch of other things with those words.

Well, I can't read the words either, but they don't need to know that.

"ENGLAND!" I shout, slapping my hand on Great Britain.

"Aangl..." whispers Klas wondrously. He looks like a kid who's discovered fireflies.

I pretend to study the words further. "France," I say, pointing to the words where France is.

"Frank," Gudmundr nods.

"Germany." I say pointing at the mass to the right of it. They look at each other questioningly. They know it as something else entirely. "Germany," I repeat, sounding very certain. They don't correct me.

I do a few more countries that are obvious to me before my geographical knowledge starts to get less certain and then feign collapse, gesturing that I need food and water. Gudmundr is of a mind to beat further productivity out of me, but Klas talks him out of it.

And that's how I , Dan Hanson, tech support analyst, became Assistant Godi of Neeric. My story is just beginning.

 

[Snap Wilson]

So "Assistant Godi of Neeric" intially meant "slave" with a few extra chores. The moment we left the room, a bruiser named Thorvik grabbed me and hauled me back outside. I briefly thought Gudmundr had changed his mind and he was going to have me killed anyway, but no, we walked about 50 yards down to the shore of a lake where there was a collection of buckets waiting.

Drone shot of settlement next to lake.

There were other dudes (I discovered they were called huscarls) grabbing buckets, filling them with the lake water, and hauling them two at a time on poles laid across their shoulders back to the Viking mansion and Thorvik indicated he wanted me to do the same thing. Well, I wound up disappointing him, because that sh** is harder than it looks. I mean, I'm in decent shape, I go to the gym three times a week and play basketball five times a week, but those buckets had to weigh 40 pounds each and trying to carry them across uneven, occasionally slippery ground caused me to faceplant more than once. To Thorvik's credit, he didn't hit me, which seemed to be the usual Viking way of expressing disappointment, he would just haul me back to my feet while all the other huscarls snickered and we'd try again. I managed to get eight buckets total back to base camp before nightfall. Then the threw me into a storeroom, gave me a bowl with some kind of meat (goat, I think) and vegetables in a brown stew and a blanket made out of coarse hair that was really itchy, and locked the door until morning.

My clothes didn't survive the second day. Apparently Astrid, Gudmundr's wife, thought I looked too weird if I was going to stick around and demanded my clothes be burned. She provided me with some clothes that used to belong to one of their people who was killed by an animal. Okay, okay, you guys can see the stupid cap now. Ugh.

-21 fashion sense

And that was my life for the next few weeks. Thorvik dragging me around to do stuff: Carry buckets of water, sweep floors, feed the dogs (I got over my fear of dogs). Every few nights, Klas would give me a new book or scroll written in the same scrawl that was on the map and I'd try to make heads or tails of it. The surprising thing was I started to really get into it. I picked up the alphabet and even some common words. I wanted to take notes, but they didn't have pen and paper lying around. They did have some charcoal and I set aside one corner of my storeroom prison to write notes down on the walls and floors. Thorvik saw them one day when he went to wake me up and showed Gudmundr, and I guess he was impressed, because I stopped being on junior huscarl duty.

Even if I was starting to grasp at least the basic concepts of the stuff I was reading, I still had to communicate it to Klas, and that was an ordeal in itself. They decided to get me a Viking tutor. Klas was too busy for that, so they assigned me a girl named Elisabet to teach me.

I like Betty. She's a tiny girl, but she doesn't take crap from anyone, plus she's always been nice to me. And she's a good teacher as well. I'm starting to pick up on the basics of the language, as well as the lay of the land. This place is called Neeric. Gudmundr is a Karl (not Carl, geez, I'm an idiot) which is kind of like a Viking tribal chief and he works for a Jarl, which is like the upgraded version of a Karl, named Bjorn or "Ironside" which is a pretty badass name for a Viking to have.

In a few weeks Jormundr and a bunch of other Karls are meeting up for a big powwow with Jarl Bjorn to pay respects and kiss the ring and whatever else Vikings do at big meetups, and I'm tagging along so Gudmundr can show me off or something.

During one of my late night sessions with Klas, I have my first existential freakout. He's explaining to me in Viking, along with accompanying charcoal drawings, how Jarl Bjorn and his brothers are all at war with some guy named Aella, who killed their dad. He's explaining who everyone is, and something starts to gnaw at me. Ragnarr Lodbrok, Ivar the Boneless, Halfdan Whiteshirt, I've heard this story before.

This is some well-known Viking shit, I'm almost positive these dudes are in Wikipedia, where do I know them from? Toby would know, he's the big history nerd. And then it hits me. That stupid game he was always trying to get me to try, some medieval ruler game where you could make your kids have sex. I couldn't make sense of it and the battles were just little dudes on a map, so I didn't spend much time trying, but I'm pretty sure the character I played was that Whiteshirt guy. But that can't be right, that was like Middle Ages, right? Are these guys recreating the story?

I try to ask Klas what year it is, but you try to translate "year" or "time" in another language to a guy who doesn't have a calendar handy and has never seen a wristwatch, and probably keeps track of time in an entirely different way than you do. Anyway, he doesn't get it, so I give up, but I'm officially freaked out. I read that Cracked article on time travel. I've been eating food and drinking water here for weeks now, I should be dead or at least really sick, so what gives? Either I'm still in the present or else I'm really lucky, so what gives?

I eventually calm down. There's no sense in freaking out about it since I can't do anything about it anyway. Later that night in my storeroom, I think about the cocktail napkins Sasha left in my pocket.

"Welcome to your new life, Dan. Make the most of it."

What did she mean by that? And why me?

 

[Snap Wilson]

You know, I have no idea why this happened, but, honestly, I'm not having the worst time right now. Okay, everyone still treats me like a leper and the name "Hundesviller" has unfortunately stuck. But Klas has relaxed around me, Thorvik seems to appreciate in his own stoic way that I'm still pitching in on the manual labor, I got moved out of the storeroom prison (to a spot on the floor, but still) and Betty and I have become buds.

Literally in the Friends zone

The Norse lessons are coming along pretty well (I only have to gesture half the time now to get my point across), and I've even taught her some English, which she delights in trying to use. She especially has taken to dropping f-bombs and I think everyone in the homestead except for Gudmundr and Astrid have received one. She also talked me into growing a beard in order to fit in. What do you guys think?

Seems a little fancy for an Assistant Godi

A few weeks later, we pack and head off for Jarl Bjorn's homestead in Sigtuna, capital of the Jarldom of Uppland.

Our traveling party is Jormundr, his sons, all but a couple of his Thanes, most of his host, Klas, myself, and even some of the women, including Astrid and, to my surprise, Betty. Klas thought her ability to translate would come in handy. We arrive a week later, and I discover that Jarl Bjorn's homestead is about three times as big as Jormundr's, and he's going to need all of it because the homestead is packed. Jormundr is only one of seven Karls, and most of them brought 2-3 times more men. Only the Karls, a couple of Thanes, and two women per tribe are allowed to stay in the main house. The rest of us are consigned to camps outside the homestead. There's some grumbling about that, but everyone settles in and it's not so bad. Jarl Bjorn obviously stocked up for this, because his men come around dispensing food enough for everyone, which hardly seems possible because there have to be at a couple thousand people here.

After a couple of days, it's time for big powwow, which is called the Allthing. This is my first opportunity to see Jarl Bjorn, and even though I don't really understand everything he's saying firsthand (Betty is translating best she can), the dude is definitely magnetic, and everyone in attendance is hanging on every word. He starts off by saying that it's time for the Karls to come together and stop fighting each other, demanding unity, and a promise to hold all Vikings accountable for their crimes, telling them that their true enemy lies across the sea, and the lands to the South.

After that comes the presentation of gifts. Some Karls deliver cattle, some deliver pillaged loot, gold and jewelry and whatnot. One guy gives Jarl Bjorn a fancy sword. Another one has a gift for the.. uh... Jarl-ette? Bjorn's wife, Iliana, a coat made out of white wolf pelts, which are apparently a big deal. Bjorn accepts all of the gifts with grace, but doesn't seem super impressed. It's Jormundr's turn and he simply provides the Jarl with a box full of books and scrolls, then explains that they were texts from the enemy that his Godi had managed to translate. What? Hey, I'm not looking for a medal or anything, but a little credit might be nice.

Bjorn's interest is piqued and he asks Klas to come forward. The attention seems to have unnerved Klas a bit and he quickly fesses up that he had some help from a random guy they found in the forest who can decipher the enemy's writing but is *definitely* not a spy, and it seems whatever plan Jormundr had to make himself look good is quickly falling apart. The Viking spy game is apparently Jormundr's whole area of expertise, so Bjorn is inclined to believe him. Jormundr reluctantly calls Betty and I forward, and after a sharp elbow from Betty I kneel respectfully. Bjorn asks me a few questions about myself and I answer as truthfully as I can while leaving out the part about maybe being from the future. Meanwhile, Jarl Queen Iliana is looking at me strangely, and I'm hoping she's not hot for me or anything because your husband who can order anyone within fifty miles to lop off my head is standing right there, lady.

Intelligent *and* a Mystic, there was no way I wasn't going to make her a part of this story.

She leans over and whispers to her husband, who pauses and considers her words. Jarl Bjorn craftily asks Gudmundr if I'm part of the gift to him, and Gudmundr tries to demur, but not for very long, and hey, looks like I have a new boss. Moving up in the world! I'm not sorry to see the last of Gudmundr quite honestly, the guy's an asshole and Bjorn seems much nicer. Betty than pipes up and says she has been teaching me the Viking language and I've been teaching her mine, if it pleases the Jarl. Bjorn thinks about it for half a second asks Gudmundr if he's willing to part with her, and Gudmundr is all hmm, well, she's a very valuable resource, teaches the camp children, blah blah blah so Bjorn hands over a few gold coins and the deal is done. Betty is coming with me! Hooray!

"Recruited" is one way of putting it, I guess.

I ask Betty later why she was so eager to leave what had been her home, and she angrily replies in broken English, "Gudmundr is fuck!"

I couldn't agree more, Betty.

 

[Snap Wilson]

As the Upplandian(?) army was mustering to head off to England, they got delayed by an attack on their own soil.

Chief Ihala from across the Baltic brought almost 800 raiders to attack the Tribe of Ahvenanmaa, which belongs to Karl Solvi, who is Jarl Bjorn's steward. Why Solvi is his steward, I'm not sure, the guy couldn't count to five without using two hands and taking off a boot. When Bjorn found out I could wield a mean abacus, he had me correcting Solvi's numbers on the sly.

That's actually a potato in his hand.

Jarl Bjorn had to drag his mustering troops off to Ahvenanmaa to take care of some Viking business, and whooped reindeer butt they did, sending the raiders packing back home. I'm not really the warlike type or anything, but even I had to cheer when I heard our guys were victorious. It wasn't all good news, though.

Bjorn's son Eirikr was seriously and irrevocably wounded. Word was he fought well, slaying 19 men with his own hand, but he took a spear through the side and although Chieftess Iliana had some medicinal knowledge and was able to stabilize him, the outlook wasn't good. I tried to help her out as much as I could with my own meager first aid knowledge, but she was way ahead of me; the Vikings had copious experience dealing with wounds. I only wished I knew what the medieval equivalent of an antibiotic was.

We were tending over Eirikr one night, she turned to me.

"You are not from here." My Norse had been progressing enough to carry on basic conversations thanks to Betty.

"No... I'm from America across the sea." I felt like I had this conversation two hundred times already. Everyone wants to know where you're from, it's a Viking thing.

"No," she corrected me. "You are not from... this world." Her eyes spooked me. "I have seen your world."

I felt a lump in my throat. I didn't know what to say, but somehow I knew she was right.

"You are not bad person," she said, looking at me with pity in her eyes. "But you are cursed. Your life will be one of sadness. You will bring sadness wherever you go." She looked down at her son, lying unconscious, steadily creeping towards death.

"You will go across the sea to Aangland soon. Please, for the sake of my husband, my grandson. Do not come back here."

-------------------------

We hit the shore of England two months later, Iliana's words still echoing in my head. My Norse had gotten decent enough that I could manage by myself okay, but Betty found a reason convincing enough for the Jarl to tag along, and knowing that I wouldn't be coming back, I was happy she did. We landed at a place called Scarborough and the Jarl undertook the business of trying to locate our allies, basically by following the trail of carnage and picking which smoking ruin in the distance they wanted to check out first. We eventually came across a troop of Halfdan's men who reported the Northumbrian capital was being sieged, and the murderer of Ragnarr Lodbrok, the enemy his sons had traveled across the sea to take vengeance on, would be within their grasp very soon. And within days, he was.

Don't get too attached, he won't be sticking around.

Jarl Bjorn rode to the Northumbrian capital with a small contingent, the rest of the army making their way south to Warwick, under the command of Karl Rikulffur, who is Bjorn's Marshal. We heard later that Ælla met his end by means of something called the Blood Eagle with all of Ragnarr's sons present. One of the men tried to explain the Blood Eagle to me, but I think I blacked out. Anyway, Ælla dead. Got it.

But the war was far from over. We reached Warwick, the holding of King Burghred of Mercia, one of Ælla's allies (heh). The armies of Halfdan and Ivar the Boneless had things well in hand up to the north, so I guess Bjorn wanted to make Burghred pay for backing the wrong horse. Surprisingly, we didn't run into any enemy armies on our way there, which, being Vikings, kind of made everyone mad. We reached Warwick relatively unscathed and settled in for a months long siege.

I'm going to skip over what happened during these months, because honestly, nothing really happened during these months. Bjorn eventually rejoined us, Betty continued teaching me Norse, I continued teaching her 21st century English, and one of Halfdan's men, a scout who accompanied us South and had a grasp of the local lingo, taught us both some 9th century Anglo-Saxon English.

After reading Beowulf, Dan resolved to invent heavy metal.

After however many months (it's really hard to keep track of time here) the soldiers of Warwick raised the white flag. Burghred wasn't home, but his wife Queen Æthelswith was, and she was taken prisoner by Bjorn, being confined to her quarters

Bjorn had her interrogated to find out anything she knew about her husband's plans, strength of his army, and any other information that she would have been privy to. I'll give her credit, she refused to talk, saying she would rather die than betray her faith. I think Bjorn was kind of impressed. A few nights after the siege broke, she told her guard that she wanted to speak to the Jarl. I don't know what she told Bjorn, but he found me and told me that she would reveal everything she knew, but only to me, and only if we were alone. Weird, but okay. What was I going to say, no?

I walked into her quarters, feeling really unsettled for some reason. She sat in a chair facing away from me, and briefly I considered my options if she decided to stab me with a quill or something.

"Queen Æthelswith, you wished to speak to me." I kept my distance, just in case.

She turned around and looked at me, her face unreadable. I didn't say anything. The silence was starting to get awkward.

What happened next, readers, was one of the most frightening moments of my life up to that point. It may not sound like much, but it was.

She hit me with one of the most bone-chilling smiles I had ever seen, and my blood went cold. This wasn't the smile of an Anglo-Saxon royal in smug defiance; it was a smile of murder and malice and death, the smile of a vicious predator fixed on her prey and I knew things were not right and I had to get the hell out of there. I wanted to run, but fear kept me rooted to the spot.

She leered at me for several seconds, the corners of her mouth turning up before she broke into a disturbing, malevolent giggle. Finally, she spoke, her voice low, calm and seductive. She spoke to me in English. My English, with no trace of an Anglo-Saxon accent to be heard.

"So tell me, Dan. How's the the new life going?"