Prologue
BROCH OF GURNESS, NORTHERN COAST OF THE ORKNEY MAINLAND, LATE WINTER, AD 1286
Einar Brandrson paced aroundthe chamber at the base of the broch, chanting the prayers he knew better than he knew the names of his kin. His bones ached and the cold air sliced into his skin, but he would persevere because he must.
The words echoed around him as he called on the gods of old to grant him a few more months of life. And to grant him the knowledge he needed to aid his grandson.
Since it was in their service, his prayers became demands as he circled seven times around the chamber and then seven times in the other direction. He listened closely for signs of an answer. Or a word of wisdom or confirmation.
None came. They never did.
The old gods could be capricious and silent when they wished to be. Though some said they’d left eons ago, Einar believed that not. They were still there— waiting in the earth and trees and wind and water for their followers to rise again.
He knew it in his heart and soul. As he knew he would not live long enough to see it. Or to help.
Sighing, he gave up praying and searched for the charcoal stick he’d brought in his sack. If he would not be here to guide his grandson, he must leave something for him. Mayhap Soren would remember the songs he’d taught him and understand the significance when the time came.
He scratched some of the most important symbols into the stones of the walls, each one in the correct position around the tower. A beast. The sun. A war hammer. A tree. A lightning bolt. Waves. Flames. Using the charcoal, he colored the scratches in until they almost looked alive.
Praying in the old language, he blessed each symbol with the name of the god it represented—Epona, Belenus, Sucellus, Cernunnos, Taranis and Nantosuelta. The last one, the flames, he did not bless for it was that of Chaela the Damned.
It would take many days to sanctify the markings, days that he probably did not have left to him. It mattered not. All that mattered was that he must continue until his last breath so that mankind had a chance against the vile destructor who now tried to push her way out of her prison.
Einar returned every morn to the broch to repeat the sacred words and blessings. And he watched from the top of the tower, searching the skies for portents of things to come. Yet every day his strength lessened and he felt his life coming to an end. And he damned his own stubbornness, too, for he had not passed on the knowledge to his kin as he was supposed to. There had been no signs for so long that he’d grown complacent. Now, his failure could doom humanity.
If only there was more time, for he could feel that Soren’s blood would rise soon and he would need guidance.
If only the gods would listen. If only the gods would answer.
He learned over the next days and weeks that the gods had heard him—and ignored his pleas after all.
Untitled
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.
One
BROCH OF GURNESS, NORTHERN COAST OF THE ORKNEY MAINLAND, EARLY SPRING, AD 1286
Soren Thorson coveredhis 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 sung 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.
