Raging Sea (4 page)

The first battle had not been won or lost by the soldiers on the field but by those of the bloodlines with the powers of the ancient gods. Very few who'd witnessed the event understood what they'd seen. Even Eudes, who had seen many strange and inconceivable things while serving Hugh, was no more prepared for what would come than the others.

Hugh crossed his arms over his chest and waited for Eudes to rise. This time Eudes was smart enough not to meet his gaze or to say anything at all. Eudes backed away with bowed head, not daring to touch the new wound while in Hugh's sight.

If Eudes questioned Hugh, Hugh's authority would be undermined and his control would waver. Hugh could not allow that. A show of power was called for and he smiled as he contemplated how best to do it. His blood raced and heat built within him as he thought on how and whom to offer up to his goddess to continue in her favor.

His cock rose as his flesh roused at the very idea of burning someone for Chaela. Their encounters always had that result—pleasure of the painful and fleshly kind. How better to worship her than with a sacrifice of the same kind? And in view of all, so that no one would dare question him or his power without remembering the cost of such an offense.

“Eudes!” he called out. The man stopped and returned immediately.

“I require a virgin. Search out the farms we passed,” Hugh ordered. “And a large flat stone to be placed”—he looked over the area where his troops occupied—“there.” He pointed to the center of the encampment. Eudes lost all color in his face and Hugh smiled again. The man understood what would happen. “Now, Eudes.”

His commander nodded and bowed and walked swiftly away to carry out his orders. Small groups went riding off down the roads to the south and west in search of the necessary virgin while others looked for the stone. Though this whole area was filled with large collections of ordinary stones and boulders, they'd passed a hillside covered in an arrangement of stones some miles south that had shimmered with power.

The obedience he'd expected resulted in the arrival of everything he needed and his blood rose in eagerness to shed the virgin's blood on the stone altar before burning her in honor of his goddess. The disappointment of the last few days was dimmed by the anticipation and excitement he always experienced before and after such an act.

How would it feel when he sacrificed the rest of the Warriors of Destiny? If a simple human sacrifice gained him this much vitality, how much more would be given to him then? He chortled and went to gather what he needed before striding to the center of his soldiers.

Hugh ordered everyone to gather and watch as he proceeded to first sanctify the stone chosen with his own blood before placing the screaming woman there. With the eyes of hundreds on him, he carried out the ceremony slowly, savoring every scream of terror and pain and every drop of blood spilt. He relished every moment of her agony when his seed exploded into her as he became the fire that burned her to ash beneath him. Not even the incessant rain that fell could quench his flames.

Though the rain and storms continued for three more days and into a fourth, not a question was raised about his plans. And there was never even a moment's hesitation in following his every order.

Power displayed was power proved. Though the delay in sailing did not make him happy, Hugh de Gifford was very pleased with the results of his display of power.

T
hree days after his grandfather was buried, Soren knew he could not ignore the parchment any longer. There had been little time to examine it before, so Soren had put it out of his thoughts and had seen to the tasks needed to ready his lands for spring planting. Those who worked the fields with and for him were in preparations, and soon the fields would be plowed and sown and ready, God willing, to be fertile in the short growing season here.

Now, though, curiosity lured him to look. His heart wanted to know what was so important to the old man that he took pains to put it in writing on an expensive piece of parchment. Einar had served the old earl in his younger years and had learned to read and write in both the Scots common language and the more formal Norse used by the earl and king. Latin was required for anyone involved with the court or the Church. Einar had insisted that his son and grandson be educated in those skills as well.

Soren sought out some privacy in a copse of trees near his barn and opened the packet. Unfolding it, he found two larger pieces of parchment and a smaller one. None of them were actually letters, but rather he found one had a map, one had some symbols and the last, the smallest one, had some words scrawled across it. Foreign words he could not understand. Mayhap the language of the Gaels?

Studying the map, he could identify several places noted on it. His grandfather's favorite place—the broch—sat in the center of the map, surrounded by other markings. Several of the ancient stone circles and standing stones and tombs were there, as well as some of the cities on the island, like Orphir and Birsay. There were some places outlined in square or round shapes—the land that sat between the lakes of Stenness and Harray, the tidal island off Birsay and a beach on the north-central coast of the island. Kirkwall, now the main city and location of the earl's palace and the cathedral of St. Magnus, was strangely omitted.

Putting the map aside, Soren studied the other large parchment, which was covered in symbols. One, the war hammer, was familiar to him as Thor's hammer. Many sailors and farmers carried or wore that symbol, for Thor was known to be friendly to those who worked the lands or sailed the seas. Others were easy to identify like the shape of flames, or the shape of a horse, or the sun or the tree or the moon or a flash of lightning.

Lines connected some of the symbols but he knew not why. The fire and the hammer. The lightning and the water. The tree and the sun. The moon and the horse. Soren ran his finger over them and shivered at what he felt there. This was not just a parchment; this was a talisman, filled with some power he could feel but could not explain.

The symbols were arranged in a circle, too, outlined in shapes that resembled the stones near Stenness and Brodgar's Ring. And in the center of that sketch, a black circle, completely filled in. A word he could not read was next to it and underlined several times. Another word, written then struck through several times, was under the black spot. When he touched that circle, screams filled his ears and visions of fire burst before his eyes.

Soren drew back, not certain what had happened. The sounds and sights stopped when he no longer touched the parchment. The sick, queasy feeling that settled in his gut made him want to burn the thing. Only that it was the last contact with his grandfather stopped him from doing so. Standing, he held the paper in the sun's light to see it more clearly. Other shadowy figures were revealed then, along the edges of the drawing, but he could not identify them.

Placing the disturbing drawing down, he looked once more at the piece filled with words. More like words than symbols, he realized, but the language did not look familiar at all. Soren had seen Latin and English and Scots and many others and yet this did not seem similar to those.

Einar would not have left them for him unless they were important and unless they could be understood or translated. So, if he could not translate these words or symbols, who could?

The only man he knew who might be able to help lived in Kirkwall. A childhood friend, Ander Erlandson worked for the bishop now. Though Ander was a priest, Soren thought he could trust the man.

Soren would not be able to travel to Kirkwall right away though he would as soon as was possible. Until then, he would protect these pages and say nothing about them to anyone. After speaking with Ander, he would go to the broch and try to find any sign that would help him understand whatever this information was that Einar wanted him to have.

If only his grandfather yet lived . . .

•   •   •

Ander looked from the parchment he held to Soren and back again, squinting and peering closely at the strange words. Soren could see both the amazement and curiosity in his friend's gaze as the priest scrutinized the sheet again. Soren left the other two—the map and the diagram—tucked safely inside his tunic. Until he had some idea of what these were, there was no reason to share too much with others. Even friends.

“I have never seen the like, Soren,” Ander said, lowering the parchment to the table between them. “Where did you come upon such a document?” Ander moved a candle closer and bent over to look once more.

Soren chose not to answer and waited on Ander's examination to continue. When his friend happened on something curious or different, he would quickly become lost in it. Minutes passed as Ander turned the parchment this way and that, holding it up to the candlelight and away from it. Then he'd hold it up against the glare of the midday sun coming through the window in the corner of the chamber. Soren stood and walked to the window, away from the table so his pacing would not interrupt his friend.

Peering out of the round tower of the bishop's palace, he could see the cathedral of St. Magnus rising over the other buildings of the city. Ander's position was important enough that he worked in the lower chamber of the bishop's private residence.

“May I keep this a few days, Soren?” He turned as Ander approached, parchment in hand and a furrow in his heavy brow. “I want to compare it to something I saw in one of the bishop's books.”

“You have no idea of what it says then?” Soren asked, fighting the urge to tear the paper from Ander's hand.

“And no idea of what language it is either,” Ander admitted. “I am baffled by it,” he laughed as he shrugged. “And I do not like to be baffled.” No, Ander did not. It was one of the reasons that the bishop took him into service—Ander was relentless when meeting an obstacle. Ander looked at Soren and waited for an answer.

Could he part with it? Einar had trusted it to him. But Soren trusted Ander and he needed his help, so Soren nodded. “How long?”

“Two days, three at the most. I have an assignment to complete before I can give my attention to it.”

“Three at the most,” Soren repeated, more to convince himself than to confirm his friend's words.

Ander nodded and smiled, like a predator who scents another prey. “And if I give it back to you in two or three days' time, you might even trust me with the others.”

“The others?” Soren asked.

“You keep touching something over your chest. More of the same, mayhap, or something different?” Ander asked, holding out his hand.

Soren stepped back and shook his head.

“Ah, so there is more.”

“Nothing really,” Soren assured. “Only something personal from my grandfather.” He met Ander's green and knowing gaze, hoping the lie worked.

“Very well,” Ander said, backing away and placing the parchment on the table once more. “I will protect this one and you can make up your mind later on the others.”

“I thank you for your help, Ander,” Soren said. He walked to the door and pulled it open. “I will come back at week's end.” About to leave, he finally remembered the name his grandfather had mentioned. “Have you heard the name Taranis before?”

“Aye,” Ander said. And nothing else.

“And . . . ?”

“I remember not where or when, but I will seek that out, too,” Ander said, lying as Soren had. The man's left eye began a slight but noticeable twitch. Soren laughed then.

“Lying is a sin,
Father
Ander,” he reminded.

“A weakness about which I pray daily,” his friend said, ushering him out of the chamber. “I will see you at week's end.”

Soren nodded and walked down the steps to the main corridor. Almost to the door leading to the outside, Ander's voice called out to him and Soren paused and turned back.

“I forgot to tell you. Ran has returned.”

He'd always told himself that he would not react to this inevitable news. The woman had been born and raised here in Orkney. Her father's shipping business was centered here. She had other kith and kin here—she would return here someday.

Ran had returned.

His life had barely returned to a normal one and now she was back. It would be torn asunder, even if he managed to avoid her, just by knowing she breathed the same air he did. Soren found he could not breathe, so he nodded and wordlessly left, seeking something he knew he would never find now—peace of mind.

He stumbled down the busy streets, not caring where he went or what he did. He mind reeled at the thought that she was on the island. Her father's business was here in the city. There would be too much to explain and too much he could not explain if they met. Deciding to leave now and go to the broch, Soren realized he'd wandered far from where he'd left his horse.

Turning back, Soren walked through the marketplace where he found himself, greeting the merchants and nodding to the vendors selling their wares. Kirkwall was a blending place, filled with people from all parts of the north and beyond. Norse, Scots, French, English all used Kirkwall and Orkney for replenishing supplies, stocking ships for travel and trading goods.

But something this day, now, was different.

As he walked the streets, Soren noticed a change in the air around him. In the colors of the fabrics offered in the weavers' tents. In the faces of the villagers. The brightness and hues had been leached from the world in which he lived.

The realization stopped him between paces.

He glanced around to see if something had thickened above him and had blocked the sun. The clear, blue cloudless skies answered him. What was happening?

And then she walked out from one of the alleys.

Ran Sveinsdottir.

The woman he'd loved. The woman he'd betrayed.

Soren stepped back into the shadows, to regain control over himself and to watch her. Tall and svelte, she moved with the same easy grace on land that she did on her father's ships. Her blond curls were tamed into several smaller plaits framing her face and one larger unruly braid. 'Twas a hopeless attempt to control the uncontrollable, but the longer woven tresses lay down her back and swung in time with every step she took. His body recognized hers. His mouth remembered the taste of hers and his hands itched to glide over those curves and touch every inch of her.

He shuddered and released the breath he did not know he'd been holding, continuing to watch her make her way through the crowded street. Without considering the folly of it and without thought he followed her, drinking in the sight of her, of her every smile and glance and movement. She bestowed that smile on many as she greeted the merchants and tradesmen along the street. Ran was the one woman he'd loved and the one he could never have. It had been two years since he last saw her and yet—

His vision flickered then and he realized that she was surrounded by color and light. They were missing in everyone else around them and were vibrant and almost alive in her. Turquoise—the color of the seas—surrounded her body, glowing and glimmering. He blinked several times, trying to clear his vision, for what he saw was simply not possible.

When that made no difference, Soren even dragged the sleeve of his tunic across his eyes, but it did not change. Her blond hair was bright and golden, her skin glowed and her eyes shimmered. Unsure of what was happening, he hissed in pain as his forearm began to burn.

Lifting his hand, he tugged his sleeve back and watched as the skin there grew red and an outline of a bolt of lightning became visible. It changed as he watched, growing brighter and clearer in shape. And it burned as it did. Covering it with his other hand, he glanced around to see if anyone else noticed.

Those seeking goods or food did not spare him a second glance. Those selling their wares did not either. Everyone else walked around him, ignorant or uncaring about this significant change in their world. As he looked around the area, Soren realized that Ran had the same bewildered expression on her face that his must have been wearing. She clutched at her arm, touching the same place on her forearm that yet burned on his.

He'd taken three steps out of the shadows and onto the street toward her when he finally pulled himself back and stopped. As much as he wanted to understand what was going on, he knew she would not welcome his approach. Or his questions.

Two years. Two years and much more than time separated them.

Since he knew her father would remain in Orkney while his ships and boats were prepared for the sailing months ahead, Soren doubted she was going anywhere too soon. If this strangeness somehow involved her, he knew where he could find her.

He would always know where to find her. Now though, he turned and walked away. He would seek out his grandfather's tower and try to put her from his mind. As he rode out of Kirkwall, north along the sea, he understood the truth that stood between them—he would never be able to completely rid himself of Ran Sveinsdottir.

•   •   •

Though he stood in the shadows between the merchants selling their wool and other fabrics, she would recognize him anywhere. Taller than her brother and her father, Soren towered over most men she knew. The years of working the fields and ships had built muscle and strength in his body, and she could not help but notice that he looked even larger now. Her traitorous body responded to the memories now filling her mind of their times together. The feel of his skin on hers. His strong hands moving over her and bringing her to pleasure. Relentlessly. As he did everything.