Free The Norse Directive by Ernest Dempsey Page B

greeted by a stone sarcophagus in the center of the chamber, but upon investigation, it proved empty. In spite of some paranoia and superstition from my men, we spent the night in the tomb, thinking it far more prudent than venturing unwittingly into an enemy encampment in the dark.
    We left early the next morning. As my men evacuated the mound, I lingered for a few moments and took a closer look at the inside of the sarcophagus. That was when I discovered the shard.
    It was a small piece of stone, no larger than the palm of my hand. On the surface of the object were strange markings, like none I’d ever seen before. I now know these odd lines and shapes are the language of the ancient Norsemen.
    Sean turned the page, his eyes wide with fascination. Charlie impatiently tried to shift into a position where he could look over Sean’s shoulder.
    My men and I found a frigate flying the king’s colors, hailed them from shore. The ship was returning from the bombardment of Copenhagen with the rest of the fleet. Once back in England, I began my work in earnest to discover what secrets the shard was hiding.
    Deciphering the code of the old Viking language took a great deal of time. It did not help that the shard was incomplete. There was enough information, however, to afford me the opportunity to begin my journey.
    The shard, as it turns out, was part of a map. What it leads to, I still do not know and fear I never will. My health has taken a turn for the worse as of late, and I fear my days in this world are numbered.
    I write these words for the future generations. My son is but a boy at the time of writing this. If you are reading this, Stuart, I hope you will carry out this last of my missions. If you do not, I forgive you, but ask only that you pass this logbook down to your child, that generations of our family may keep it safe.
    Along with the journal, I ask that you do the same with the first of what I believe is a set of four golden coins.
    Unfortunately, I was only able to complete a quarter of the journey. But you, future generations of Jacksons, may take the difficult path and finish my mission. To date, I do not know the face of the bearded man on the coin. I likely never will. I have searched through books and scrolls, pouring years of my life into this endeavor. Still, I cannot find a clue as to who the man is. I believe him to be an old Viking king or god, but that is mere speculation.
    The language on the back is different from the other Norse verbiage I found on the shard. I continue to attempt to decipher it.
    Good luck on your journey. The southern gate opens the way for those who pay the toll.
    Sean’s wide eyes narrowed as he finished the last passage. The southern gate? That was a strange way to end the entry. He thought for a minute before looking up at Coop. The bushy bearded man stared across the table, his eyes full of wonder.
    “Well, Sean, what do you think?”
    He didn’t respond for a second, reverently flipping through a few more pages of the diary first. There were strange symbols and more notations from Jackson on the latter pages. Coop’s ancestor had begun a quest to find something. What it was, none of the men at the table knew for sure, but whatever it was, had been important enough that it had consumed Francis Jackson until the day he died.
    “It’s interesting stuff,” Sean said finally.
    Coop gaffed and leaned back in his chair. “I was hoping for something a little more substantial than a baseline answer like that, Sean.” His barb was only partially serious, though he crossed his arms after saying it.
    Sean tilted his head to one side and then the other, still carefully eyeing the outside of the leather book. “Sorry to be so vague. It’s just that I’ll need some time to think about what’s in this,” he held up the journal. “I’ll also have to do a bit of research on your ancestor to find out all I can about him, as well as anyone else who may have used this to look for