Raging Sea (3 page)

His last link to his father now severed, Soren's heart filled with grief as the reality struck him. No more stories. No more songs. No more tales of the history of the islands. And the worst was that Soren would never again hear his grandfather teach his lessons of life.

His death was not unexpected—Einar had lived many more years than most did. Soren should have been ready for this, but losing kin was never easy, no matter their age or infirmity.

“He knew.” Soren had forgotten his aunt remained with them until she spoke. “He knew his end was near. He left something for you for when”—she paused, her voice thick with emotion—“for when he passed.”

Soren followed her into the other chamber in the cottage and waited as she searched through a trunk for whatever his grandfather had left him. She lifted a small packet of parchment from within and held it out to him. A spark surprised him as he took it from his aunt. Her expression told him nothing. Did she know what was inside? Did she know what Einar left for him? As though he'd asked aloud, she smiled and shook her head.

“That is between you and Einar. He made me promise.” Even with tears filling her eyes, her mouth still carried the hint of a smile. “Men's work, I suspect.”

“I will return later,” he said. “I will see to my farm and come back to do whatever you need of me.”

“Soren?” His aunt met his gaze and Soren knew what was coming. “Will you send word to Ran? She held him in high esteem.”

As Einar had held the young woman high in his regard.

“I know not where she is, Ingeborg.” Thinking that would end the painful subject of Ran Sveinsdottir, he turned to the door once more. But his aunt did not know how to let that dog lie quietly and poked him again.

“As though I would believe that, Soren. Well, the matter is yours, but I think she should hear it from you.” Ingeborg wiped her hands down the front of her apron, telling him clearly what she thought.

His heart heavy with sorrow, he made his way to the door and pulled it open. Clouds raced across the sky over his head and swirled, covering the bright sun and changing from day to near-dark. The smell of rain filled the air and bolts of lightning lit the sky ablaze. The thunder that followed each flash made the ground beneath him shake. 'Twas as though the elements saluted the passing of the old man.

He tucked the precious parchment inside his tunic and readied his horse to return to his home some miles away. The skittish animal pulled from him and tugged with every bolt of lightning. Soren would never make it home in this storm. He'd find himself facedown in the dirt or worse if the horse fought him. Glancing up as another bolt flashed, he thought on Einar's word last night.

Laughing at the sheer folly of it, Soren whispered in his thoughts to the winds.

Take the rains away,
he thought.
Go south and do not bother us now.

Stop the lightning and thunder.

A second later the rain and lightning ceased. The clouds still circled above him and Soren could almost feel them waiting on him for his next command. Realizing what he was thinking, Soren shook his head and chuckled. He knew how strange and changing the storms could be on Orkney. Pushed by the sea winds, rain could come and go in an instant. As these surely had. How could he think otherwise?

He mounted then and the horse obeyed his commands, heading for his farm in the interior of the island. Within the shelter of the hills, his lands prospered and never more than when his grandfather had guided him.

Now, Einar was gone.

Mayhap the parchment he carried would tell him more? Until he examined it, he would not know and, by the time he arrived back at his cottage, he had no answers to the questions that had already plagued him and many more questions to add to his growing list.

After the burial, he would see to matters and questions brought up by Einar's behavior and his passing.

At least, he did not have to try to find Ran to tell her about his grandfather. She'd left the island two years before and had not returned since their parting. The only thing he could do was to send word through her father—and that was something he simply could not do.

Northwest coast of Scotland

It seemed as if the fates and now the weather conspired against them.

Marcus stood outside his tent, his face lifted to the sky, offering another prayer that the gods would side with them and allow their passage. The prayer had not changed, nor had the weather, over the last five days. He turned, watching as Aislinn approached in the rain.

The young woman, like a daughter to him, had shown her mettle during their recent test against the evil goddess's followers. Now, she seemed more at ease with the role she would play in the coming confrontations.

“Could I have misinterpreted the prophecy, Marcus?”

Marcus nearly laughed at her words, but he held his amusement in check, for they exposed her vulnerability.

The words of the old gods directed them north, away from the Scottish lands to those of the Norse. He'd recognized the truth in them as she spoke them to those who now gathered to fight for humanity.

“Nay, Aislinn,” he said, drawing her into the shelter of the edge of the tent. “I heard the gods' words in what you said. And we know that Lord Hugh heads north, too.”

Her gaze darkened and he reached out to her, trying to offer what comfort he could, for terrible, dark days awaited all of them ahead. Embracing her and wishing he could save her from the pain and loss to come, he nodded at the group of warriors who trained in spite of the torrential rains and lashing winds.

“See, our new allies prepare themselves to meet the challenges ahead. With the warblood and the fireblood at our side, we will defeat the evil one . . . again.”

The first battle had been theirs, but not without the steep price of lives lost. But they'd found the truest of allies, two who had inherited their powers directly from the gods. And William Warblood's sworn men to fight at their sides.

“And the two we seek now in Orkney? Will they join us?” Aislinn asked as a shiver shook through her.

“The powers that rise in their blood make them Warriors of Destiny,” he said. “That cannot change. But only they can decide on which side they fight.” Marcus released her and stepped back. “It is our responsibility to find and teach and guide these new ones, just as we did with William and Brienne.”

The two whose names he had just spoken touched his mind then with their thoughts, curious about the reason. Once they had successfully sealed the first circle, the gods had gifted them with a bond that connected their thoughts with those of Marcus and Aislinn. A bond that had also cost them dearly but one that would be a huge advantage in the coming battles. Marcus and Aislinn faced those two and Marcus waved them off.

“Our prayers seem unaccepted,” Aislinn whispered, as she pulled her cloak tighter around her slim form. “It has been days.”

“Ah, but if we are trapped here, so is Lord Hugh,” he said. “And it gives us more time to train the men.”

Aislinn nodded and watched that training in silence at his side. She left when Brienne summoned her, leaving Marcus to contemplate their next voyage and their next confrontation.

Though they were victorious the first time, he did not underestimate their enemies or their determination to free the goddess from her otherworldly prison.

The sun burst through the thick clouds then, illuminating the area around them. The warriors training and fighting let out a cheer at the sight and warmth of it, but it did not warm Marcus's blood or raise his spirits.

Darkness was spreading. Chaos threatened all that they held dear. Destruction of the world in which they lived was the goddess's promise. And no amount of sunshine could remove those fears from his heart.

He only hoped his prayers would be heard and that the Warriors of Destiny would finally prevail against the evil one who could destroy all of humanity.

North Sea, off Mainland of Orkney

Spring, AD 1286

R
an closed her eyes and lifted her face into the sea winds. The boat sailed across the dark surface of the firth between Scotland and the islands that made up Orkney to the north. She did not hold on to the ropes or the side of the boat for she could keep her balance no matter how rough the waves became.

Though winter was losing its grip and days would soon grow warmer and longer, Ran Sveinsdottir knew better than to underestimate the calm-surfaced seas. Since the time she could walk, she had sailed at her father's side. In good weather and bad. In all seasons and seas. The ominous weather seemed to stay to their south and the dark, threatening clouds hugged the northern edge of Scotland and did not move.

She leaned against the side of the boat, not their largest, and peered out at the lands just rising from the sea ahead of them. Ran squinted into the distance and allowed herself to savor the view of . . . home. Two years. Two long and lonely years had passed since she last walked on the island of her birth.

Ran moved a couple of paces forward and shielded her eyes from the unusually bright sun. The boat lifted and dropped as it crossed the waves, bringing her ever closer. Her breath caught then, as memories of her departure flooded her mind. She pushed them away, refusing to allow them to intrude on this return. She had a new life now. She had plans for a future. Her father's influence and wealth had created opportunities she would not have had if she'd remained on Orkney with . . .

Ran shook off the maudlin feelings and turned when someone said her name. Finding no one close or even watching her now, she shrugged it off and peered at the islands that grew larger and larger with every mile crossed.

Ran.

She'd heard it quite clearly then and turned once more to seek out the source of the voice.

Ran.

This time it seemed to come from the sea itself. Was someone in the water below her? She leaned over the railing of the boat and searched the water there. Nothing. No one.

Ran.

This time she was paying attention and her name whispered forth from beneath the surface of the sea there before her. Shaking her head in disbelief, she was caught unaware when a swell hit the boat, sending it tilting to one side and tossing her over the railing. Grabbing for something, anything, to stop her descent into the water, she grasped at air. Preparing herself to hit the icy water, she instead found herself in a pocket of warm water.

Holding her breath, she prayed that someone had seen her fall for there'd been no time to call out in alarm. With the many layers of heavy woolen skirts and cloak she wore, she would have little time before sinking into the depths below. Ran could swim, but the weight of her garments would pull her under and deep. And quickly. Tugging on the ties of her cloak, trying not to panic . . .

I can swim,
she told herself over and over, as the water covered her, pulling her down. Then it began.

All around her, voices whispered her name. The sound of it floated and surrounded her in the sea. The water moved, too, shifting and encircling her, almost caressing her. Its warmth eased her fears and she stopped fighting the downward pull, staring at the sparkling, shimmering flashes that enclosed her in a silent embrace. The murmuring sounds began then, as though voices spoke there in the sea.

Ran.

Daughter of the sea.

Waterblood.

Power.

Command us.

Each word resonated with joy and welcome and want. And with each sound came a touch, a caress of hands that could not be possible, for the sea had not hands. Had she lost consciousness? Was she dreaming or dying and imagining this in her last moments of life? Turning and glancing up to the sunlight above her, she knew she must get to the surface.

Up,
she thought.
Up now.

At only the thought, the touches turned to pushes, swirling and moving her through the water toward the brightness above her. An instant later, she shot out of the sea as though thrown up into the air. Ran prepared for the gasping she knew would follow, as her body fought to reclaim its breath.

As one of the sailors caught sight of her and called her name aloud, she realized something unbelievable had just happened to her—she had never stopped breathing. Ran had not even tried to hold her breath under the water. She was practiced at it and could remain under it for a few minutes, but this time, the instinct had never begun.

Then another shocking occurrence—when she had fallen back into the water, she did not swim but did not sink. Instead of the water sucking her down, it seemed to hold her up there, waiting for rescue. Warm, impossibly warm, though it felt almost solid beneath her body. She grabbed the rope and tugged the large loop over her head and down under her arms.

“I thought we'd lost you, Ran,” Bjorn said, as he pulled her over the side and helped her to her feet. “I've never seen a boat pitch that far without capsizing completely. It seemed to pause for a moment, neither leaning nor righting itself. Strange that.”

“Nor I,” she said, tugging the laces and freeing her sodden cloak. “A sudden wind?” Ran glanced at the man who'd sailed for more years than she'd lived. The winds could be unpredictable any time on the sea, but during this transition from winter to spring, even more so.

“Nay, calm.” Bjorn waved to one of the other men. “Get blankets.”

She should be shivering. She should be shuddering from the temperature of the seas at this time of year and yet, the water that her clothing and hair held remained warm. Just as it had beneath the surface. Ran allowed Askell to wrap a thick woolen shawl around her shoulders.

“You should go and change out of those garments. I do not wish to explain your sickening or worse to your father, Ran,” Bjorn ordered in a soft voice. From the expression in his gaze, this had scared him.

It scared her.

More though, it confused her. She rarely lost her balance when sailing. And Ran did not suffer when moving onto land after being on a boat or ship—each step was sure and steady. So, falling into the water as she had puzzled her.

No matter what or how, she did not wish her father to be concerned and question her suitability for the tasks that lay ahead of her. Their bargain had been bitterly fought and she would not give it up now.

“A rogue swell,” she whispered before facing Bjorn. “A rogue swell caught the boat. I am well,” she said. “There is nothing to tell my father.” Bjorn's weathered face told her nothing. “All of us have ended up in the water. 'Tis the way of it amongst those who spend their lives on the sea.”

Ran met his gray gaze and waited for his decision. Her father sought an excuse to forbid her from sailing on his ships, and this would be enough. He wanted her married and settled, whether in Orkney or one of the many ports where his business interests lay. She wanted the freedom of the sea.

“You look no worse for it, lass,” he finally said, glancing away. “But if anything else . . .”

She reached out and hugged Bjorn, kissing his leathery cheek before he could say more. “We are nearly home. All will be well, I swear it,” she said.

“Go now,” he stepped back and nodded. “You are soaked through to the skin. Change your garments.”

Knowing how much it took the man to agree not to reveal this to her father, she nodded and left him there without another word. As she went below deck, Ran glanced back to find Bjorn staring at her. Had he heard the voices? Had he seen the way she'd been thrown back into the air? Or had he noticed the warmth in her wet clothing?

She would not ask him for it was pure folly to think that there could be voices in the water. Or to think that she breathed under its surface. Or think the water somehow saved her. Ran was not prone to visions or hearing things that were not there, so she could not explain it all. Better to let it lie rather than bring up matters she could not answer.

As she undressed and dried off, Ran noticed the new mark on her arm. Had she hit it as she'd fallen over the railing? Or mayhap as Bjorn and the others pulled her up? It was red like a bruise but, as she examined it, it changed. It moved. It almost looked as though there was something moving under her skin. And then the burning began, sending little bursts of pain through her skin.

Tearing off a strip from her still-wet shift, Ran wrapped it around her forearm, covering this injury. The coolness of the bandage soothed it as she'd hoped it would. One little bruise or scrape was nothing compared to what could have happened to her, so she continued dressing and returned to the deck above to watch the rest of the journey.

Though Bjorn and the others never took their watchful gazes off her, the final part of the journey was uneventful. Within hours they turned northward and made their way into the center of the islands and her father's home in Orphir. His fleet of ships moored in nearby Kirkwall harbor during the high sailing season but he kept only a few this far north over the winters. The rest would be moved soon, since Orkney was the center of the world in which Svein Ragnarson ruled with his widespread shipping business.

A shipping empire that she would be part of. That she would inherit. One that she would control.

For that, she could bear returning home and chance seeing the man who had driven her away two years ago. The possibility of seeing Soren Thorson again and the pain she would suffer were costs she would willingly pay for the rewards she would gain.

They arrived in Orphir to find that her father had not yet returned from northern Scotland. 'Twas not unusual, especially considering the storms she'd seen to the south. The last message from him said he would be here within a sennight of her arrival. So she would have time to visit with other kin and even the few people she called friends before she left Orkney for good.

Her father's servants were as efficient as ever and she found herself settled into her old chambers quickly. Aired and with fresh linens on the bed, the room welcomed her home. A hot meal was promised for later and a tray of bread and cheese sat before her within minutes. Waiting on her father's return would not be such a bad thing while she was being cared for like this.

She did not sleep while at sea, so she decided to rest a day before going into Kirkwall, to the market and to see to tasks she needed to complete before her father arrived. Tasks her brother would have seen to if he'd returned with her. But Erik had been a victim of Soren's betrayal as much as she'd been and he'd vowed to never return to their home.

As she drifted off to sleep, it was not dreams of that man that filled the hours until dawn, but the sounds of the water swirling around her. Especially the voices in the water. Impossible voices speaking impossible words.

Ran.

Daughter of the sea.

Waterblood.

Power.

Command us.

Only at dawn when she walked out of her chamber to the edge of the water did she realize that the sounds were not in her dreams. The same voices whispered to her from the water there, like the sirens of legend, luring her to enter their world.

Northeast Coast of Scotland

Lord Hugh de Gifford strode toward the tent erected there for his use. Surrounded by lackeys and followers, he considered his next move. His plans, the goddess's plans, had stumbled in the first battle with those of the fire and war bloodlines, but he was engaged in a war. One battle, though it would have been sweetly satisfying, did not matter. There were four gateways. Four possible places for Chaela to reenter the human world and take control.

And destroy her enemies.

He would savor that scene. As he would savor watching those who had stood against him grovel at his feet, begging for mercy. A mercy that did not exist. If the daughter of his flesh thought she would be spared, if any of them did, they were mistaken. Waiting here for passage north had given him time to plan their executions.

Once the goddess was freed, his own powers would soar and he could easily destroy the other fireblood. And he would. But for now, he had to wait for these damn storms to pass. If he did not know better, he would suspect that the stormblood was controlling them. He did know better though, for he could and would feel each bloodline as it arose and no more had . . . yet. Or was he so far from his source of power that his own was lessening?

“My lord?” Hugh whirled around to face Eudes, his commander, who'd managed to come upon him without warning. “I have found enough boats to carry us north.”

Time was critical now and he must get to Orkney and find the stone circle there. It was a more difficult task, considering the number of islands and places it could be. And he must discover the identities of the two warriors who would determine the outcome of this battle and possibly the entire war. It was the easier of the two tasks, but finding them would not guarantee success. He clenched his fists, trying not to strike out at the man before him. Hugh needed him for now.

“When do we leave, Eudes? When?”

“Once the weather clears, my lord. The man said they've never seen a storm like this before.”

Hugh glanced up at the sky, watching the storm clouds spinning, dumping torrents of rain down on them. As he searched to the west, there was no break in those clouds and the sun was completely blocked. It would not be this day, he knew.

“As soon as there is any break in this weather, send that message north to the earl.”

“Aye, my lord.” Eudes did not move away so there must be something else.

“What is it, Eudes?”

“Should I continue to train the men?”

Hugh's answer to the impertinent question was a gauntleted hand across his half brother's face, a blow heavy enough to send the hulk of a man to his knees and to tear open his cheek. “Do not question my orders again.”