Prologue
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 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
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