Norway's doomed attempt to colonize the island had failed miserably, partly because of Grimwald's harsh weather 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 Norway'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.