Raging Sea

Book 2: A Novel of the Stone Circles

by Terri Brisbin

Genres: Fantasy Romance; Medieval Romance; Viking Romance

Synopsis

From the USA Today bestselling author of Rising Fire comes the next novel in the spellbinding series that explores the wondrous and tantalizing mystery of the Celtic stones...

Eons ago, seven ancient deities trapped the goddess of chaos under a ring of stones. But now, in the darkest days of the 13th century, Chaela threatens to escape, leaving the fate of all humanity in the hands of two young lovers...

 The daughter of a wealthy Orkney trader, Ran Sveinsdottir's life is turned upside down when an accident at sea unleashes powers within her, which she never knew she had.Those powers have drawn her into the battle of two warring factions: the Warriors of Destiny, whom she knows in her heart to be noble, and a menacing army holding her father captive. Her hope for survival is in the hands of Soren, the man she once loved, the man who betrayed her, and the only man she can trust in a raging battle against evil.

Release date: October 6, 2015

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 352

Sample

The Legend

Centuries ago

The six gathered inside the stone circle and around the seventh, awaiting her acceptance of their sentence. Her next actions would determine the fates of humanity and of this world. Taranis hoped Chaela would choose to step back from the abyss of evil. Her words tore his spirit apart.

“You are fools!” she screamed. “I can destroy you all.”

Knowing now that there was no other way, Taranis looked at each of the others. Only by combining their powers against her would they be able to save this human world and yet, the thought of taking this action against her made his blood freeze. His feelings changed as she unleashed her destruction on the humans who gathered there on the open fields around the henge.

Changing into the form she favored, Chaela rose into the sky on black-and-red wings. Flames spewed from her mouth, burning people, plants, and even the earth in their wake. The screams echoed in the air as the smoke evaporated, leaving ashes everywhere. With no other alternative, Taranis nodded to the five gods and they began the ritual of silencing one of their own.

She laughed at the destruction she’d wrought and inhaled a deep breath, one that foretold a killing strike. Drawing in their own breath, the chant began between them, swirling in the air and encircling them, her and the stones beneath them. Only a moment passed before the power began to control her.

As a weaver wraps the threads over and under, through and around, they wove the thoughts of the spell that would take away her power until they could imprison her. Building a cocoon around her, the ritual blocked her words and her powers and surrounded her so completely that even her thoughts were contained within it.

Taranis knew the moment she realized what they were doing. And, once more, they offered her a truce.

“Chaela,” Belenus, the god of life and order, called out to her. “Cease this and you will be allowed to live.”

“Fools!” she roared back when her voice would serve her mind. “I cannot be destroyed!” Struggling against the bonds that held her, she could not do more than scream out in frustration. An elemental power such as hers was created by the universe and could not be extinguished.

“You can be defeated, Chaela. You will be imprisoned in the endless pit and never return. Your name will be forbidden and forgotten,” Sucellus, the god of war, warned.

They could feel her disbelief and resistance. She would never give up this mad quest for complete domination of humanity and of them. Steeling himself, Taranis waited for Cernunnos to begin.

The earth buckled and rose at his brother’s command, exposing the endless pit within the circle as they chanted the sounds of power. Taranis guided the winds to wrap around her, securing her in his grasp even as their spell did. The current swept her over the yawning chasm and held her there. Now, the final step, a terrible one, would seal her out of this human world. The human male who carried Chaela’s blood and power stepped into the circle and joined them in the ritual, adding his voice to theirs. Her screams pierced the spell.

She knew.

She feared.

Taranis pushed her down into the blackness, forcing her deep into the chamber that existed within and outside this world. The words they sang created it and would seal it. And the sacrifice of Chaela’s only blooded son would keep her there forever.

The human walked to the pit and threw himself off the edge, soaring over the abyss. Sucellus created a spear of iron and threw it at the man, impaling him on it, piercing his heart and spilling his blood into the pit.

The other gods honored the sacrifice, freely made, with their words, completing the ritual that sealed Chaela away. After the destruction and horror of the day, a blessed silence and peace filled the area as the ground and chamber closed and disappeared. The stones returned to their usual size and positions and everything was right with the world.

Taranis’s brothers and sisters gathered around him, all weary from the struggle of exiling one of their own. They’d barely accomplished it against her formidable powers and only with the blood sacrifice had they triumphed. Now, the world and humanity were safe and would remain so.

Forever.

They would leave here, knowing that humanity could continue without them, but they imbued their own human bloodlines with their powers to keep watch . . . always. A race of men and women who could use the powers to keep this evil at bay. Warriors of Destiny, not war.

But, with their course of action this day, they would never be needed to do that.

Never.

Prologue

Broch of Gurness

Northern Coast of the Orkney Mainland

Late winter, AD 1286

Einar Brandrson paced around the 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.

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.

Chapter 1

Broch of Gurness

Northern Coast of the Orkney Mainland

Early spring, AD 1286

Soren 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.

His last link to his father now severed, Soren’s heart filled with grief as the reality struck him. No more stories. No more songs. No more tales of the history of the islands. And the worst was that Soren would never again hear his grandfather teach his lessons of life.

His death was not unexpected—Einar had lived many more years than most did. Soren should have been ready for this, but losing kin was never easy, no matter their age or infirmity.

“He knew.” Soren had forgotten his aunt remained with them until she spoke. “He knew his end was near. He left something for you for when”—she paused, her voice thick with emotion—“for when he passed.”

Soren followed her into the other chamber in the cottage and waited as she searched through a trunk for whatever his grandfather had left him. She lifted a small packet of parchment from within and held it out to him. A spark surprised him as he took it from his aunt. Her expression told him nothing. Did she know what was inside? Did she know what Einar left for him? As though he’d asked aloud, she smiled and shook her head.

“That is between you and Einar. He made me promise.” Even with tears filling her eyes, her mouth still carried the hint of a smile. “Men’s work, I suspect.”

“I will return later,” he said. “I will see to my farm and come back to do whatever you need of me.”

“Soren?” His aunt met his gaze and Soren knew what was coming. “Will you send word to Ran? She held him in high esteem.”

As Einar had held the young woman high in his regard.

“I know not where she is, Ingeborg.” Thinking that would end the painful subject of Ran Sveinsdottir, he turned to the door once more. But his aunt did not know how to let that dog lie quietly and poked him again.

“As though I would believe that, Soren. Well, the matter is yours, but I think she should hear it from you.” Ingeborg wiped her hands down the front of her apron, telling him clearly what she thought.

His heart heavy with sorrow, he made his way to the door and pulled it open. Clouds raced across the sky over his head and swirled, covering the bright sun and changing from day to near-dark. The smell of rain filled the air and bolts of lightning lit the sky ablaze. The thunder that followed each flash made the ground beneath him shake. ’Twas as though the elements saluted the passing of the old man.

He tucked the precious parchment inside his tunic and readied his horse to return to his home some miles away. The skittish animal pulled from him and tugged with every bolt of lightning. Soren would never make it home in this storm. He’d find himself facedown in the dirt or worse if the horse fought him. Glancing up as another bolt flashed, he thought on Einar’s word last night.

Laughing at the sheer folly of it, Soren whispered in his thoughts to the winds.

Take the rains away, he thought. Go south and do not bother us now.

Stop the lightning and thunder.

A second later the rain and lightning ceased. The clouds still circled above him and Soren could almost feel them waiting on him for his next command. Realizing what he was thinking, Soren shook his head and chuckled. He knew how strange and changing the storms could be on Orkney. Pushed by the sea winds, rain could come and go in an instant. As these surely had. How could he think otherwise?

He mounted then and the horse obeyed his commands, heading for his farm in the interior of the island. Within the shelter of the hills, his lands prospered and never more than when his grandfather had guided him.

Now, Einar was gone.

Mayhap the parchment he carried would tell him more? Until he examined it, he would not know and, by the time he arrived back at his cottage, he had no answers to the questions that had already plagued him and many more questions to add to his growing list.

After the burial, he would see to matters and questions brought up by Einar’s behavior and his passing.

At least, he did not have to try to find Ran to tell her about his grandfather. She’d left the island two years before and had not returned since their parting. The only thing he could do was to send word through her father—and that was something he simply could not do.

Northwest coast of Scotland

It seemed as if the fates and now the weather conspired against them.

Marcus stood outside his tent, his face lifted to the sky, offering another prayer that the gods would side with them and allow their passage. The prayer had not changed, nor had the weather, over the last five days. He turned, watching as Aislinn approached in the rain.

The young woman, like a daughter to him, had shown her mettle during their recent test against the evil goddess’s followers. Now, she seemed more at ease with the role she would play in the coming confrontations.

“Could I have misinterpreted the prophecy, Marcus?”

Marcus nearly laughed at her words, but he held his amusement in check, for they exposed her vulnerability.

The words of the old gods directed them north, away from the Scottish lands to those of the Norse. He’d recognized the truth in them as she spoke them to those who now gathered to fight for humanity.

“Nay, Aislinn,” he said, drawing her into the shelter of the edge of the tent. “I heard the gods’ words in what you said. And we know that Lord Hugh heads north, too.”

Her gaze darkened and he reached out to her, trying to offer what comfort he could, for terrible, dark days awaited all of them ahead. Embracing her and wishing he could save her from the pain and loss to come, he nodded at the group of warriors who trained in spite of the torrential rains and lashing winds.

“See, our new allies prepare themselves to meet the challenges ahead. With the warblood and the fireblood at our side, we will defeat the evil one . . . again.”

The first battle had been theirs, but not without the steep price of lives lost. But they’d found the truest of allies, two who had inherited their powers directly from the