Day of the Vikings. A Thriller. (ARKANE)
Day of the Vikings
A Thriller
By J.F. Penn
Copyright © J.F. Penn (2014). All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is fictionalized or coincidental.
“
Sól tér sortna, sígr fold í mar, hverfa af himni heiðar stjörnur.
”
“The sun turns black, earth sinks in the sea. The hot stars down from heaven are whirled.”
Völuspá
, Prophecy of the Seeress, from the Icelandic Poetic Edda
THE NIGHT SKY FLICKERED with shades of green, at first jade and then cerulean, winking through chameleon colors and morphing into pink. Spears of silver lanced from the heavens, as if stars rained down onto the earth. The aurora borealis filled the expanse of the sky with unnatural hues illuminating the faces below.
“The armor of the Valkyries blesses this sacrifice,” a woman’s voice called out, low and commanding. “The gods have sent the solar winds to herald our new dawn.”
Shades of indigo and turquoise enlivened the Merry Dancers, as the aurora was known on the Orkney Islands in the far north of Scotland, closer to Norway than London. Here the people still lived close to the ocean and the sky, understanding the power of the wind to sweep away the past and bring renewal again.
The lights touched the face of the man bound to one of the standing stones, his eyes glazed. He smiled with rapture as he saw the spirits leap and caper in the vault of heaven.
The Ring of Brodgar, a Neolithic stone circle thousands of years old, stood at the center of a natural cauldron shaped by the surrounding hills. The prehistoric ritual complex was the focal point for the energies that lay beneath this ancient land. On this night, it bore witness to the renewal of vows not spoken for hundreds of years.
There were seven men in the ring, dressed in furs, who knelt before one woman. Her hair was long and gray with one bright blue streak, blowing in the high winds to fly up around her like a nimbus of power. She was the Crone, embodiment of wisdom, though none dare call her that to her face. Her fingers clutched a wooden staff carved with runes. She stamped it onto the earth as she approached the bound man.
“A storm is coming,” she proclaimed.
“A storm is coming,” the men around her echoed, falling to their knees. They began to chant, a low rumbling repetition more animal than human, a tongue not spoken for centuries in these parts, and feared when it was.
The woman pulled a knife from her leather belt as she called to the skies.
“Odin, All-Father, give me your wisdom, lend me your prophecy, that tonight we can see the path to restoration.” She touched the tip of the knife to the man’s chest, gentle at first, but then she pressed into his skin, drawing rune lines across his flesh as blood rose in the path of the blade. “
Fylliz fiorvi feigra manna, rýðr ragna siot rauðom dreyra
.” The man uttered a moan, flinging his head back against the stone. The woman kept the blade moving, tracing the rune lines that emerged like a dread tattoo on his skin. “It sates itself on the life-blood of fated men, paints red the powers' homes with crimson gore.”
Her voice echoed with the voices of those who had worshipped under the same skies for millennia. On the last word, the woman reversed the knife so the hooked part of the blade was uppermost. With strength that seemed beyond her, she thrust the knife into the man’s lower belly, wrenching it up and around. The man howled, a sound of wolves and wild things that once had stalked this land. The stink of entrails filled the air as intestines oozed out, dripping with blood, and the man’s cries resounded amongst the stones.
“Accept this sacrifice, Odin, god of Death.” The woman’s voice was husky now, as if she spoke to a lover. “Take this life as our payment for your hidden knowledge.”
She turned to one of the kneeling men and he handed her a simple iron cup. Holding the knife, the woman slashed at the throat of the victim, opening his neck and silencing his howls. Blood spurted out over her and she leaned in to receive the blessing of the giver. She held the cup to the open wound, letting blood pulse into the chalice as the life force left the man and he sagged against his bonds.
“Give us your wisdom,” the woman whispered as she mixed in the juice of the deadly mushrooms from a vial. Only the right measure would bring the visions, a glimpse of the other side. Too much and they would die here in shaking fits and voided bodies. She took a long sip, blood staining her mouth, and then passed it to the first man kneeling before her.
The woman’s eyes flickered as the warm blood trickled down her throat and the drug began to work in her. She looked up at the aurora above the standing stones, the glory of the heavens. Surely it was Asgard, home of the gods, revealed through the portal of the firmament above. The branches of Yggdrasil, the world tree, entwined their realms together, its leaves made from the sinews of warriors who perished with the name of Odin on their lips. Too long had she waited, her patience tested by the gods, but now it was finally time.
The cawing of ravens began as a far-off sound but then a host of them flew across the sky, highlighted by the colors of the aurora. They circled the group below, their shrieking filling the stone circle, almost blocking the eerie light. It seemed like a thousand thousand of them thronged the skies, their cries a paean to the All-Father, a blessing on their acts in His name. The men on their knees were transfixed by the whirling birds, their black feathers shining with the hues of the bright sky, at once emerald green and then slashed with bright vermilion.
“Odin the Raven God is come to us,” the woman cried out, her hands raised toward the winged messengers, blood still staining her flesh. “Here are Huginn and Muninn, thought and mind, the ravens that Odin sends out to search for knowledge. Here is our sign, and now is the time. We will go south and retrieve that which will bring us power again.”
MORGAN SIERRA WALKED THROUGH the grand Neo-Classical entrance of the British Museum into the Great Court. The early morning sun filtered through the paneled glass ceiling high above, casting lined shadows onto the cool stone beneath her feet. Morgan couldn’t help but smile to be here again, a place of magic for anyone as obsessed with seeking knowledge as she was. Part of her wanted to turn right toward the Enlightenment Gallery, where every object was a gateway to another rabbit hole of research. Coming here had once been for pleasure only, but now this kind of research was part of her job at the
Arcane Religious Knowledge And Numinous Experience Institute, known as ARKANE – the world’s most advanced and secret research center for investigating supernatural mysteries.
For a moment, a shadow crossed her face. The last time she had been here, the main exhibition had been religious relics, the blood and bone of saints, sponsored by a man she had later seen turn into a demon in the bone church of Sedlec. Morgan’s hand rose to her left side, where the scar he had carved still throbbed in the cold of morning. She shook her head, casting aside the memories. Every mission with ARKANE had its own blend of violence and mystery, and Morgan had accepted both as part of her new life.
After Budapest, she had asked for some time to investigate a book that had been sent to her from Spain, the address label in her father’s handwriting although he had been killed by suicide bombers years ago. The impossible package was on her mind now, but Director Marietti had deemed this more urgent, and she had been sent to investigate an artifact on loan to the museum from a private collection of Viking ritual objects. With Morgan’s background in the psychology of religion, Marietti thought she would be ideally placed to assess whether ARKANE should send a replica back to the exhibition so they could study the actual artifact privately in the secret vaults below Trafalgar Square.
“Dr. Sierra?”
Morgan turned toward the voice.
“Good morning. The curator sends his apologies, but he’s preparing for a big tour. I’m Blake Daniel, another researcher here. He’s briefed me on your request, so I’ll be taking you through to see it.”
Morgan hid her surprise at his appearance with a smile of welcome. With coffee skin and piercing blue eyes, a number-one buzz cut and designer stubble, Blake looked as if he had just come from the set of a music video, not the dusty corridors of the museum. A fleeting thought crossed her mind that she wouldn’t say no to a drink with him either. Blake held out a hand and Morgan noticed his gloves, a light coffee color that ensured they didn’t stand out too much against his darker skin. It struck her as strange nonetheless to be wearing them indoors on a day that was already warming up. She shook his hand, wondering why he wore them.
“So, tell me about the ARKANE Institute,” Blake said, as he led the way around the Great Court toward the Sainsbury Wing where the special Viking exhibition was being held. “It must have some clout considering how fast your request to see the exhibit was processed.”
“The Institute is mainly a group of academics working as a collective. We publish academic articles and run seminars, primarily around religious artifacts and unusual findings.”
And then there’s the rest of it, Morgan thought. The secret side of ARKANE, with agents working on supernatural mysteries around the world, generally at the flash points of religion and the occult. The ARKANE that held relics and sacred objects of power in the vaults deep under Trafalgar Square. The ARKANE where agents died to keep the rest of the world safe from things that most wouldn’t even believe possible. The ARKANE that had threatened her family, and still woke Morgan with nightmares of flames and blood.
Blake turned into the Egyptian hall, where they walked past the Rosetta Stone and gigantic heads of the pharaohs. Every step within the British Museum was packed with treasures that alone would be wondrous, but here were dwarfed by the sheer volume of history. It was a place to be lost in wonder for days, and Morgan was fleetingly jealous of Blake for working here.
“So, what’s your particular interest in the staff of Skara Brae?” Blake asked. “It’s not exactly the focal point of the exhibition. In fact, it’s more of a sideshow.”
Morgan smiled, for the rabbit hole of intellectual curiosity was her own addiction and anyone who worked in the museum would understand her fascinations.
“I found an obscure reference in the Icelandic
Konungsbók,
” she said. “It tells of a year in which floods would rise and the aurora borealis would be seen in southern lands; when the blood of a
völva,
a shamanic seeress
skilled in illusion, would awaken the demons of old and they would usher in the final winters, heralding Ragnarok.”
“That’s the Viking apocalypse myth, right?” Blake asked, as he led the way through the galleries. “The fabled fall of the gods, when the final battle between all races will bring the giant sea serpent from the ocean and would lead to the world being submerged in water.”
