Prologue
Orkney Islands
October 6, 1011 AD
Randvior Sigurdsson plantedhis feet in the sand and gazed eastward across the North Sea. He raised his war axe high above his head and saluted his forefathers. A yellow-tinged quarter-moon, haloed by rings of light and mist, loomed overhead like an apparition. It inspired the Viking to speak ancient verses to attract Odin’s favor. Only six days separated him from Norway and he desperately wanted to go home.
Motionless, he closed his eyes and swore he heard his ancestors chanting the same praises to honor the old gods. Every night for the last three months, he’d walked this shoreline and surveyed the flat landscape. At times, he regretted establishing new steadings in the Orkneys—tonight seemed to be one of them. Barren hollows of sand and withering bushes stretched as far as the eye could see. The only redemptive qualities in these islands were the familiar scent of salt water and the brooding sounds of gulls.
Sighing deeply, he turned and walked toward the flimsy lean-to he slept inside when he chose to stay onshore. As he neared the camp he shared with his men, he spied a few soldiers sitting near a roaring fire, passing wine around. They greeted him and offered the bottle. Randvior shook his head. No spiritstonight, unless they were the kind the gods sent as messengers in dreams.
He kicked open the plank door and stepped inside the shelter. It was barely large enough to accommodate his bulk. He stripped off his cloak and lay down, stared overhead, and studied the brightening nighttime sky between gaps in the boarded ceiling. Thousands of stars twinkled above. He counted them one by one, as he’d often done as a child. And very slowly, his eyes grew heavy with sleep.
In the middle of the night, Randvior’s dreams caught fire. He growled and cursed, challenged and defended, until he rolled off his cot and knocked himself awake. He tried to remember where he was exactly. The shelter was dark, but the vision of a woman’s face glared at him through the pitch. Almond-shaped eyes pinned him to the floor.
He thought he remembered that beautiful face, crowned by a mane of honey-colored hair. She resembled one of Odin’s Valkyries, perhaps a match to the ones depicted in the tapestries in his hall.
He sat up and she uttered a single word.Durham.
But … why?
Chapter One
Invasion
Durham, England
October 10, 1011 AD
Dark clouds alwaysgathered in Noelle Sinclair’s dreams. Hundreds of nightmares had played out in her mind since childhood. Why should tonight be any different?
The smell of burning wood invaded her sleep. Smoke snatched her breath and she tried to purge her lungs by taking deep breaths. She ran for the great hall and all she could see were scorched rafters and floorboards. Guards scrambled to the battlements, while women and children fled the castle. She searched for her sisters among the people migrating outside.
“Fire!”
Noelle’s eyes snapped open at the sound of dire warning. By God, this was no dream! She flung blankets aside and rolled over, shook her older sister awake, and jumped out of bed.
“What’s wrong?” Margaret asked sleepily.
“The castle’s on fire. Get up,now!”
Margaret scurried from bed and ran with Noelle to the windows overlooking the eastern edge of the castle. Through the swirling fog, Noelle could make out a tangle of men with torches and weapons in the courtyard below. She further scanned the shoreline where the North Sea pounded against the rocks anddunes. The castle was under siege and poorly defended. Most of the soldiers and her father were in Ireland, leaving only her brother and a skeleton army behind.
Her gaze still locked on the beach, Noelle caught sight of three, silvery-white longships anchored beyond the walls. Their blood-red sails snapped in the wind. She stared in horror as the pattern on the sails came into focus—the shape of a dragon.
“We need to get outside,” she said, and gave Margaret a gentle push toward the door.
Noelle grabbed a cloak from a hook, wrapped it around her shoulders, and thrust her feet into the first pair of available shoes. Exiting the bedchamber, Noelle led the way down the passageway, then descended the stairway that ended in the great hall. She halted midway, and Margaret drew back, frightened by the spectacle of violence below. Swords and pikes, fiery torches and axes—a blur of bodies and faces awaited them. The smell of blood and sweat permeated the room instead of the familiar scent of bread baking in the kitchen.
“What can we do?” Margaret whimpered.
“Keep moving,” she answered, and gripped her hand.
They reached the bottom floor. Men were fighting everywhere and the sound of metal scraping metal deafened her ears. She searched for a familiar face, someone to help them escape. Luckily, John, her father’s favorite captain, met them near the stairs.
“Run!” He lowered his weapon and pointed.
Noelle stumbled, but managed to sneak between two combatants. She looked over her shoulder at John.
