The Undying Viking: An Arthurian Fantasy Adventure (Merging Worlds Book 1) Read online

  THE

  UNDYING

  VIKING

  Merging Worlds – Book 1

  I. C. Shadows

  This novel is a work of fiction—except for the parts that aren’t.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product

  of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously—

  except for those that weren’t.

  Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental—except where it isn’t.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Cover Design By: Melony Paradise of Paradise Cover Design

  ISBN: 979-8-88680-306-8 (paperback)

  Copyright © 2022 by I. C. Shadows

  For the unpublished introduction & for free bonus stories, please subscribe at

  www.theundyingviking.com

  Table of Contents:

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TO BE CONTINUED

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  PROLOGUE

  For over a century, the Vikings were the most feared fighting force the world had ever seen—none greater than Holger the Dane.

  Having won all the wars of his time, the undefeated Viking warrior is said never to have died. Instead, legends say he sleeps, his body turned into a mighty stone statue residing deep within the casemates of Castle Kronborg.

  Dressed in full armor, with sword and shield at the ready, Holger remains in an enchanted sleep--ever with one eye open--and only to awake should danger ever rise again to threaten his beloved Denmark.

  And on that day, stone will again turn to flesh—and the roar of the Viking will be heard and felt in all the lands of the world once more.

  ONE

  The happiest place in the world is Denmark—at least, that’s what people often say. But as far as Markus Trygg was concerned, those people didn’t know what the hell they were talking about.

  Road rage existed everywhere.

  The first blow smashed into his jaw. The next, a high-arching kick to the crouch, made Markus forget all about the first. Knees buckling, he spilled out onto the asphalt writhing in agony as splotches of brilliant color swarmed his vision. Then, a few hard kicks to his midsection gave Markus a chance to lament how he’d gotten here.

  A late rise for work had led to a frantic race against time. The toothpaste had barely been spread across his teeth when Markus bolted out the door and into his car. Unfortunately, he'd been unceremoniously cut off as he’d been bobbing and weaving in and out of traffic. And rather than let it go, he’d given the offender an emphatic three-finger salute. By all rights, it should’ve ended after the subsequent face-off that saw them both outside their cars and shouting within inches of one another—but just as the man had turned back to his vehicle, Markus decided he’d needed to have the last word.

  It was an obvious mistake, and the bruises that would surely entail for the weeks to come would be his lasting reminder.

  “Piece of shit,” the man slurred, standing over him. “That’ll teach you.”

  Blinking through the pain, Markus heard the gunning of an engine, followed by the squealing of tires as both promptly faded into the distance. He groaned as he rose to his knees, spitting blood as he ran his tongue over his teeth to assess the damage. But amazingly, they were all still there. He was just about to climb to his feet when his phone rang. Pulling it from his pocket, Markus moaned when he saw the phone’s screen was a spiderweb of ink and broken glass. Thankfully, he could still pick up the call. He answered with as steady a voice as he could muster.

  “Markus Trygg,” a mouth more than half-full chomped from the other end. “I’m Agent Benson McDermott of the Danish Security and Intelligence Service.”

  Sitting up, Markus gawked into the phone. “The Danish Security and what now?”

  “I agree with you; too many goddamn words. Let’s just call it DSIS.”

  Whatever pain Markus was experiencing moved abruptly to the background. Thoroughly late for work by now, he’d expected the call to be from his boss, wondering where he was. Never in a million years would he have expected this. “What can I do for you?”

  “For starters, stand on one foot and touch your nose.”

  Silence. “W-what?”

  The man on the other end of the phone spoke through the crackling line. “Loosen up.” Then, his tone became serious again. “I called because I need you to listen to something.”

  “You need me to listen to something?” Markus repeated as he moved out of the street.

  “This will go a lot faster if you don’t repeat everything I say,” McDermott barked. “Yes, I need you to listen to something, and then I want you to tell me what ya hear. Think you can do that for me?”

  “This is a joke, right? A prank call?” Markus was growing increasingly skeptical. He shook his head as he made to cut the call. “I don’t want any of whatever you’re selling. Good—"

  “If you bloody hang up that phone, I promise to come down there and put you in handcuffs myself.”

  Markus stopped, eyes widening as he placed the phone back to his ear. His pulse quickened.

  “This is a matter of national security,” McDermott emphasized. “Do you understand?”

  He didn’t, but Markus felt compelled to say otherwise. He shook his head and immediately felt stupid for doing so. “Yes.”

  “Stand by.”

  He heard a thud as if the phone had been placed down. Then, Markus heard McDermott yelling a series of expletives that made his ears burn.

  A thunderous, almost inhuman, roar rose in response. And from the tirade belted such a savage-like response, with two final words that caused Markus to rear back and stare at the phone in stunned disbelief. And when the deafening tirade finally ended, a similarly unwelcome voice took its place.

  “So?” McDermott asked.

  It took Markus a moment to find his tongue. “What the hell was that?”

  The disappointment bled through the phone. “You didn’t understand what he was saying then?”

  “Understand?” Markus scoffed. “Of course I can. Don’t you?”

  There was a long pause. “For this conversation, let’s pretend that I don’t. So tell me, what did it—what did you hear?”

  “You’ve got a real pissed-off guy over there,” Markus shot back.

  “The words, Mr. Trygg,” McDermott replied deliberately.

  There hadn’t been much to understand—at first. But midway through the raucous chorus, it was as though a switch had flipped inside Markus’s head and words, spoken in a heavy accent, formed within the stew of molten rage. It was a message of violence, bellowed with such ferocity that even standing on the other end of the line didn’t make Markus feel any safer. There were two words in specific that had his heart wanting to beat out of his open mouth.

  “He said my name,” Markus’s voice cracked. “Whoever that is, he sai
d my name.”

  Chaos ensued as the man who’d identified himself as Agent Benson McDermott suddenly started shouting things frantically in the background. The man must’ve placed a hand over the phone because whatever he was yelling came out as gibberish, leaving an already-reeling Markus to guess at what was happening. He gave that about five seconds before he was fed up.

  “I’m hanging up now,” he started, hoping there’d be no objection.

  Unfortunately, McDermott jumped right back onto the line. “Mr. Trygg, I need you to take down an address and get to it right away.”

  The air went tight as though Markus were suddenly drowning. “Have I done something wrong?” It was a ridiculous question. Markus knew he’d done nothing wrong. Aside from a sometimes volatile temper, which had just earned him a well-deserved ass-kicking, he was as clean as they came. There was no reason he should be on anyone’s radar––certainly not the department in charge of the country’s national security.

  “All will be explained when you get here,” McDermott answered without answering. “I’m textin’ you an address. Use it and—”

  “I can’t,” Markus objected, a surge of pain erupting in his side. “My phone—the screen is broken. This guy and I just got into a fight, and it broke in the—”

  McDermott didn’t appreciate being interrupted. “Tell it to someone who cares. Just take down the address and get your ass here pronto.”

  Whether due to the condescending tone or the pain that was swiftly returning to his jaw, Markus had had enough. “No. I don’t want any part of this. Don’t call me again, ok?”

  He didn’t bother waiting for a response, ending the call with such force that tiny shards of glass jabbed into Markus’s finger. He brushed them away before turning the phone to silent and jamming it back into his pocket. Then, just as he’d finished brushing his clothes free of what dirt he could, a car horn blared from behind him, sending his head spinning.

  An older woman with thick glasses stared at him from behind her windshield, concern evident in her lined face. Seeing her, Markus felt a swell of gratitude. She’d been the only one to stop. Everyone else had driven right on by—even as Markus had been getting his rear handed to him. He held up his hand to show his appreciation—but when the silver-haired woman honked the next time, she also gestured wildly with her hand. She wasn’t worried about Markus; she just wanted him to get his car out of the way.

  Shaking his head, but done fighting for one day, Markus practically dropped himself into his seat and shut the door. He grimaced when he glanced at himself in the rearview. Though his hair was a wild mess, it was fixed with little effort. It was the swelling, already appearing in his puffy cheeks, that couldn’t possibly be hidden by any amount of stubble. Still, nothing was broken—and he needed the money—so Markus went to work.

  “Hold it right there!”

  Markus swore under his breath. He’d averted his gaze from where he knew his boss, Nelson Lamm, would be waiting for him. In vain, he’d hoped he could snake by without being noticed. But even half-blind, Nelson had spotted him and came bustling from his office, speeding towards Markus as fast as two impish legs would carry him while adjusting his square, horn-rimmed glasses. The white, short-sleeved shirt made Markus nervous he might get blood on it if Nelson got too close.

  “What the heck happened to you, lad?” Nelson asked, getting so close that Markus had to look down to meet the shorter man’s investigative stare. “Did you get mugged or something? Do you need an ambulance?”

  “No, I'm alright,” Markus replied, not meaning a word of it. “I've just—I’ve had a rough morning.”

  Nelson grabbed him by the arm. “You are light-years past that, my boy.”

  Markus let the older man steer him into a seat. His head started getting hazy again as the nerve endings on his face started sending fresh pain signals. The next thing he knew, the cold press of ice cubes was being applied to his right cheek through a cloth towel.

  Nelson's bespectacled eyes locked with the younger man's in a “don't bullshit me” look. “Anything broken?”

  “I don't think so.”

  “Considering your face is turning into a Jackson Pollock painting, I’d say you’re extremely lucky if that’s the case.” Nelson indulged in his third nervous tic, rubbing the bridge of his nose and pushing the glasses up and down. “How'd this happen to you?”

  “Just a real bad case of the Mondays, Nelson,” Markus moaned, repositioning himself in the seat to comfort his aching midsection.

  Markus didn’t like being so short with Nelson. The older man wasn’t just his boss; he was also a friend––and maybe Markus's only one. As a small, stout man with a shiny head that Markus couldn’t imagine had ever not been bald, Nelson was infuriatingly nosy—but only ever looking out for Markus.

  “Perhaps you should consider some time away?” Nelson suggested, rubbing his sun-spotted hands together. “A vacation or something. I can’t remember the last time you took one of those.”

  It had been five years since the car accident that took his parents while Markus had been away at college. The sudden nature of their deaths had left many unresolved matters, which forced Markus to withdraw from school and return home to cope. Unfortunately, it took longer and more from him than he’d initially expected. And, eventually, he never left at all—and with an old family friend, Nelson Lamm, eager to put him under his wing, Markus allowed himself to slip into a life of mediocre routine—which allowed no room for such things as vacations.

  Nelson seized on the silence to prod yet again. “Maybe this is your sign to get the hell out of here, Markus. Start fresh.”

  Markus did what he could to keep from grinding his teeth against what he knew was coming. “You haven't done anything else but live here,” Nelson went on. “The older you get, the more that worries me.”

  Markus squirmed in his seat, baking under the heat of his judgment. “I've still got time.”

  “That’s what all you young people think,” Nelson snapped. “But you don’t. I often think about your parents—they were always talking about you getting out of here, finding a nice girl, and settling down somewhere.”

  Markus exhaled as he shook his head. It’s not like he’d been a hermit since returning. Not entirely, at least. “Nelson, please—not today. Of all days, not today.”

  “Fine. If you say so,” Nelson surrendered, lightening his expression. He put a pair of fatherly hands on Markus's shoulders, patting them lightly. “Look, I know it's been a rough day, and it's just getting started. But, by rights, you should be sitting in the emergency room right now—so, why don’t you go home? Take the rest of the week off.”

  “Told you it's not that bad,” Markus said, his mouth making a liar out of him. “And I need the—”

  “Stop it. You have enough paid vacation time saved up, for Christ’s sake,” Nelson waved his hands, ushering Markus from the room. “Go before I change my mind. I’ll give you a call later to check on you.”

  Mumbling his thanks—because that’s all he could manage—Markus rose carefully to his feet and left the office. As he trudged back to his car, he felt Nelson’s watchful eyes on him. While he didn’t like how their talk had gone, particularly on his own end, Markus promised himself he’d make amends with Nelson. But first, he needed rest.

  Thankfully, his drive home was more uneventful than his drive to work—but not painless, as the real damage caused by fist and foot had begun to take hold within his battered body. He turned on the radio to distract him from the pain. It helped—for a little while.

  “Station 4 News, I’m Lyle Overby with your morning update. Locals continue to be frustrated by what they call severe governmental overreach—as DSIS agencies converge on and shut down any communication leading in or out of several nearby villages over the last several days. No one has been able to leave or enter, and there has been no word from those who live there. All we know is what they are telling us—but speculation has run wild with rumors of a p
otentially deadly virus that the government has been trying to head off.”

  Arriving in his driveway, Markus switched the car off. He barely remembered pulling in or climbing the stairs that led into the old cottage-style apartment. It was all a blur. He had just enough energy to plug in his phone and place its ruined screen facedown onto his kitchen counter before collapsing onto the sectional situated in the middle of the room. Markus put a pillow over his face to blot out the sun—and let the darkness take him.

  Resounding thuds at his front door woke Markus after what he thought was only minutes later. The blanketing darkness pouring through the windows told a different story, however. He searched for the wall clock and was unable to contain his surprise—and annoyance—when he saw it was two in the morning. Somehow, he’d slept the whole day.

  Another loud knock at the door confirmed what had woken him in the first place. Typically, Markus would have questioned who could be knocking at such an hour before opening the door—but he groggily assumed it was Nelson, having driven from his apartment a few miles away to check on how the latter was doing. But Markus’s tongue froze as he saw three men standing on his doorstep in the meek light offered by a fixture one bulb short. Two were stacked shoulder-to-shoulder and hidden in shadows while lurking behind a man roughly Markus’s height but easily double the width.