Raging Sea

by TERRI BRISBIN

  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 t
o 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.”

  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.

  Chapter 3

  Three 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.