Raging Sea

by TERRI BRISBIN

  If only he could control the winds or the weather!

  His grandfather’s mumbling began anew—he was whispering those words again. The ones he’d sung at the water’s edge. Soren could not help himself; he fell into the pattern of sounds and cadence and sang the words under his breath.

  If he could do that, he would turn the winds warm, like midsummer’s winds that blew across his fields and helped his crops. If he could, Soren would make them gentle and soothing rather than bitter and stinging.

  If only . . .

  Old Einar lifted his head and smiled. “Blessed by the gods, Grandson. I told you.”

  Soren was about to argue when he noticed that the icy, strong winds had ceased. Glancing about, he thought they might have passed into the protection of a thick copse of trees or some other shelter that blocked the winds, but they had not. They rode along the open path, away from the sea. Then the winds turned warm, warm as he’d wished them to be, and his grandfather laughed.

  “Make them cease, Soren,” he urged. It was daft to think he could make a difference. Mad even. Old Einar nudged him, pushing against his arm. “You made them warm. Now stop them.”

  As much as Soren wanted to laugh off his grandfather’s words, something deep inside of him loosened and a desire to attempt it urged him on to . . . try it. Even knowing he did not, indeed could not, control something as powerful and uncontrollable as the winds, he pulled the reins and brought the horse and cart to a stop.

  “Grandfather,” he began. “You must know . . .”

  “I know more than you imagine,” Einar whispered. Then he nodded and began the chanting again, low and even.

  Now Soren’s blood stirred, in a way he’d never felt before. Some force raced through him and, for a moment, he believed he could stop the winds. And, for another scant moment, they did. Soren lifted his face and felt nothing. He tilted his head in a different direction . . . still nothing.

  “Summon them now, Soren. Bring them forth,” the old man said. His voice, more forceful and steady than Soren ever remembered, echoed around them. Soren thought he heard another speaking, too, but only his grandfather was there.

  Foolishly, he began to follow his grandfather’s order and imagined the winds rising and encircling them. He closed his eyes and asked them to warm again.

  And they did.

  The winds swirled around them in a cocoon of warmth, gently at first and then faster when he but thought the command.

  Wider, he thought.

  The winds loosened their hold on him and his grandfather and swirled in a larger circle, enclosing the cart and the horse. The animal tugged against the bit, whinnying its dismay and fear.

  “Away,” Soren said.

  Within seconds, the winds blew wider and wider, softer and softer, until they were gone and only silence filled the area. Shocked, Soren turned slowly and found his grandfather’s knowing gaze on him.

  “How?” he asked him. “How is such a thing done?”

  Before his grandfather could say a word, Soren’s arm stung. Ignoring a possible injury in the face of understanding this weird and strange occurrence, he waited on the old man’s words. A wave of fire shot through his forearm then, forcing Soren to gasp. Pulling the edge of his tunic’s sleeve up, he saw a strange mark on his arm. Something rose under the skin and moved about before disappearing.

  “You carry the blood of Taranis within you, Soren. Worshipped long before the Norse gods arrived here. The god of winds and storm and lightning and thunder. You command it all to do your bidding,” his grandfather said, smiling and nodding. “The power is awakening now. The bloodlines are rising. The battle is coming. It is now your destiny. Do not fail in this as I have, Grandson, for the fate of all humanity is at stake.”

  Soren took in a breath, preparing to argue but his grandfather collapsed against him then. When he could not rouse him, Soren shook the reins and urged the horse to move. By the time they arrived at his aunt’s cottage, the old man seemed even more fragile than before. Soren carried him inside and put him in his bed. Even deeply asleep or unconscious, Einar mumbled those familiar words.

  He sat with his grandfather, listening until no more sounds came. And all the time, Soren’s blood heated and raced and the skin on his arm stung. Questions filled his mind and the only person who could answer them lay asleep. Soren accepted a bowl of stew from his aunt and remained at Einar’s bedside through the night, waiting for him to awaken.

  The next morning, the sun pierced through the small chamber and found Soren still there. He’d fallen asleep in a chair at some time during the dark of night. He rubbed his eyes, pushed his hair out of his face and peered at Einar. His grandfather had not moved since Soren had placed him here, not even when Soren tried to speak to him.

  “Grandfather,” he said softly, reaching out to touch his hand. “Are you well?”

  His hand was icy and had lost any suppleness. Soren’s heart clutched as he leaned closer and listened for the sounds of breathing. Placing his hand gently on Einar’s chest, he felt no rise or fall. No movement at all.

  His grandfather was dead.

  Scuffling feet behind him grew closer now and Soren turned to face his aunt. The only other one of Einar’s kin alive, she’d seen to his care even after the death of his son, her husband.

  “He is gone?” Ingeborg asked.

  “Aye,” Soren said, standing and moving aside so she could sit by the man she treated as her own father. “I did not think he would go so quickly. He seemed . . .”

  “Indestructible?”

  “Immortal, truly.”

  She leaned closer and touched Einar’s cheek, whispering something under her breath. Then she moved her thumb across his forehead and touched his closed eyes and mouth before bowing her head three times. The mumbled words were similar to what he’d heard from Einar and those he’d repeated. A child’s rhyme? Had Einar passed it down through his children?

  “No man can live forever,” she said, as she faced him. Tears tracked down her cheeks and Soren drew her into his arms. After a few moments, she leaned back and wiped the tears away. “And he lived a good and faithful life, Soren.”

  “He seemed stronger on the ride back here last night,” he said. “I found him at the broch, near the water, swaying and mumbling. But, he spoke clearly on our way here.”

  Clearly, but certainly not sanely. Now, in the bright sun of morning, believing he could influence the winds seemed like a farce. Had he simply given in to soothe his grandfather’s agitation and mad claims? When Old Einar grew anxious and wandered, Soren would do or say whatever he must to ease the man home and back to calm. As had other kith and kin. When the man ranted and raved without making sense, but was concerned over some matter or another, they tried to smooth his way through it.

  “The dizzy spells and confusion lasted longer and longer these past few months,” Ingeborg answered. Patting him on his shoulder, she smiled. “You were a good grandson to help me see to him. You treated him with respect and kindness. Your father would’ve been proud.”

  “And now?” Soren asked. “What will you do?”

  “My sister’s kin said there is a place for me there, with one of her nieces. After we see to Einar’s burial, I will make preparations to go there.”

  “Do you need help?”

  “Nay. The women from the village will help me prepare him. He wished to be buried next to his wife, so that is where he will lie.”

  “A Mass?” he asked, somehow knowing the answer would be no.

  “I did not agree with his beliefs,” his aunt said quietly. “But I think there is no call to summon a priest.”

  Those who lived closer to the main city on Orkney worshipped more often and lived and worked under the scrutiny of the Church. But those who lived on the edges of the isle or on the smaller ones did not suffer such a close watch unless attention
was brought to their heretical beliefs. Soren shuddered then and turned back to his aunt.

  “Call on me if you have need of anything. I will help with the burial,” Soren said. His aunt nodded.

  He leaned over and took Einar’s hand, rubbing the weather – and age-roughened skin and trying to accept the man’s death. More father than grandfather to him, this was the man who’d taught him so much. How to run a farm. How to fish and sail. How to be loyal to kith and kin, though clearly Soren had not learned that lesson well enough.

  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 cloud
s 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.

  Chapter 2

  North Sea, off Mainland of Orkney

  Spring, AD 1286

  Ran 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 . . .