Raging Sea (2 page)

While those of the blood advance

and the lost lose their way,

Water and Storm protect the Hidden.

The Hidden reveals its secrets

only to those who struggle with their faith.

Broch of Gurness

Northern Coast of the Orkney Mainland

Early spring, AD 1286

S
oren Thorson covered his eyes and searched the beach near the ancient broch for someone almost as old—his grandfather. He'd made certain his father's father was not in the round stone tower itself before heading toward the sea's shore. Glancing east and west along the sands, Soren could not find him.

In his eighth decade and longer-lived than all of his friends and family, Einar Brandrson would not relent and die. He clung to life with the tenacity and will that continued to surprise Soren and the rest of his kin. The old man watched the horizons, day after day, waiting for something. Soren guessed he would die once that thing for which he waited arrived.

A movement near the water caught his eye and Soren walked in that direction. There, kneeling at the sea's edge, his grandfather rocked back and forth while dipping his hand in the water. It had to be frigid and yet Einar never took his hand out. Soren's calls were ignored; no surprise for the man's hearing had been deteriorating for years. He reached the waterline and touched his grandfather's shoulder.

“Grandfather, you must come away now,” he said as he guided his grandfather back and up to his feet. Or tried to. The old man resisted Soren with a strength that also surprised him. “Come.”

The rocking to and fro continued and now Soren could hear that old Einar also chanted or sang some melody. Bending closer, he recognized the sounds, for he'd heard them from the time he was a boy and was taken in by his grandfather on the death of his parents. Though he did not understand them, he could repeat them and did so now, whispering them as he tried to lift his grandfather away from the water. Continuing to struggle against Soren's efforts, old Einar did climb to his feet.

“Come, Grandfather,” he said, sliding his arm under the old man's and stepping back from the edge. “Aunt Ingeborg will think you lost once more.”

His aunt had claimed just that when asking Soren to find him. Old Einar roamed the coast, day after day, starting at dawn and ending only when someone dragged him back across the miles to Ingeborg's cottage. The broch was a favorite destination and Soren found him here more times than not, usually at the top of the tower, staring out across the rolling lands of the island or across the strait to Eynhallow or Rousay. Always watching.

“You are a good boy, Soren,” Einar said, turning to face him. “You have listened to my words and never mocked me.” His grandfather's voice was sure and clear and his gaze now focused on him, something it had not done in years. “It is time. It is coming.”

“Aye, Grandfather, the night is coming and 'tis time to get you home,” Soren replied. “I brought the cart. It is just over the hill,” he said, nodding in the direction of the dirt path.

“Some say that the Old Ones left our lands eons ago but they are never forgotten. I have remained faithful, but I am the last of my line and too old to fight as I should.”

“Nay, Grandfather, we have no battles to fight. The earl's claim to Orkney is clear and he is high in the king's esteem.”

He'd seen the man get overwrought before, but this felt and sounded different from those times. His grandfather was coherent and clear-eyed. Soren continued to urge him away from the water.

“Do not ignore my words, Soren. You have the blood of the gods in your veins. You have a place destined in the coming war,” his grandfather whispered. “There is so much you need to know. We must speak on these matters.”

“And we will speak,” Soren agreed. “But we can do it before the fire in the comforts of your daughter's cottage. Come, Grandfather.”

The man's mouth opened and then he shook his head as the strength leeched from his body. Soren caught him up, wrapping his arm around the frail figure and helping him along the sand to the path and the waiting cart. The sun descended in the west and the winds began to whip around them in the growing cold as they traveled along the road.

Blood of the gods? Soren chuckled at that. Which gods would that be? Many had been worshipped here in Orkney, from the Picts to the Norse, and now the One True God of the Christians held sway. Not a particularly religious man, Soren had done whatever duties were expected but never truly thought on matters of faith.

His family was of Norse descent as were most who claimed lands on Orkney. Though the Christian god had supplanted the old Norse gods centuries ago, there were many signs and places all over this and the other islands marked with the Norse symbols and runes for them. Even his father had borne the name of one of the most known—Thor, Odin's son, the god of thunder who bore the mighty battle hammer
Mjölnir
. A god who was linked to both farmers and sailors—the two main ways men made a living here in Orkney.

Soren had no time to contemplate those spiritual matters, for his concerns were more about the timing of preparing the land for planting. And about when the soil would thaw and warm. And whether there would be enough sun to cultivate their fields before the winter's winds and cold blew once more across the islands.

His grandfather now huddled on the bench next to him, shivering as the coming night's chill grew. Soren glanced west to gauge if they would get to Ingeborg's and its promised warmth before darkness fell. He'd not brought a blanket with him, so he tugged the old man closer to share his body's heat for the rest of the journey.

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.