Whispers of the Runes

Book 0: Runes

by Christina Courtenay

Genres: Family Life; Viking Romance

Synopsis

Brimming with romance, adventure and vivid historical detail, Christina Courtenay does for the Vikings what Diana Gabaldon's Outlander and Clanlans does for Scottish history. The bestselling author of Echoes of the Runes spins a thrilling and epic new timeslip tale, perfect for fans of Barbara Erskine.

Time is no barrier for a love that is destined to be.

When jewellery designer Sara Mattsson is propelled back to the ninth century, after cutting herself on a Viking knife she uncovers at an archaeological dig, she is quick to accept what has happened to her. For this is not the first Sara has heard of time travel.

Although acutely aware of the danger she faces when she loses the knife - and with it her way to return to her own time - this is also the opportunity of a lifetime. What better way to add authenticity to the Viking and Anglo-Saxon motifs used in her designs?

As luck has it, the first person Sara encounters is Rurik Eskilsson, a fellow silversmith, who is also no stranger to the concept of time travel. Agreeing that Sara can accompany him to Jorvik, they embark on a journey even more perilous than one through time. But Fate has brought these two kindred spirits together across the ages for a reason...

Praise for Christina's pacy, evocative and romantic, Echoes of the Runes and The Runes of Destiny, out now:

'An absorbing story, fast-paced and vividly imagined, which really brought the Viking world to life' PAMELA HARTSHORNE

'A love story and an adventure, all rolled up inside a huge amount of intricately-detailed, well-researched history. Thoroughly enjoyable' KATHLEEN MCGURL

'Prepare to be swept along in this treasure of an adventure! With a smart, courageous heroine and hunky, honourable hero at the helm, what's not to like?' KATE RYDER

'Highly recommended for lovers of historical romance and timeslips, it's another absorbing read. 5 stars' GEORGIA HILL

'An amazing page-turner filled with superb historical detail, it had me gripped from the first page to the last - I absolutely loved it!' CLARE MARCHANT

'The Runes of Destiny seals Christina Courtenay's crown as the Queen of Viking Romance. This sweeping tale takes us on Linnea's journey through the centuries, and will leave you wanting more. By Odin's crow, I declare this is a 5 star that readers will love!' CATHERINE MILLER

'Every story Christina Courtenay spins is better than the last and every world she creates is more real. I loved The Runes of Destiny!' SUE MOORCROFT

'This book has brought the 9th century world alive to me and made me desperate to read more about it' GILL STEWART

(P)2021 Headline Publishing Group Limited

Release date: June 24, 2021

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 368

Sample

Prologue



Stockholm, Sweden, August 2019

‘Oh, come on, don’t be a chicken! It’s not like anyone believes in fortune-telling anyway. It’s just a bit of fun, right?’

Sara Mattsson sighed and sat down next to her best friend’s little sister, Maddie, who was shaking a small leather pouch full of stones. The teenager had learned to read the runes as a way of passing the time when her parents took her to Viking re-enactment weekends, and jokingly claimed to be psychic now. She often pounced on anyone who came to the family’s home for dinner, offering her services as seeress.

‘And anyway, I need the practice to keep my skills up, you know. Please?’ Maddie wheedled.

‘Fine, but I don’t want to hear anything about tall, dark strangers, OK?’ That would just remind her of her ex.

Maddie grinned, but then grew serious as she went through the ritual of closing her eyes, selecting three stones from the pouch and dropping them on to a tablecloth with three circles drawn on to it. Each stone had a different rune painted on its surface, and the girl leaned forward to study them. ‘Look, they’ve all ended up in the circle for your future. Excellent!’ She picked one up. ‘This is Raidho. Means you’re going to travel.’

‘Well, yes, I know. I’m going back to the UK tomorrow.’ Sara had been visiting family and friends in Sweden, but it was time to return to her fledgling business in England. She’d been renting a flat in York for the past year, as well as a small workshop where she created Viking- and Anglo-Saxon-inspired jewellery to sell. It was the perfect place for it, as the whole town seemed steeped in history.

‘Hmm, it should be more exciting than that, but whatever. This next one is Berkana, the rune of birth and growth. It promises new beginnings and, um, possibly desire and love?’

Sara snorted. ‘Not very likely. I told you, none of that rubbish, please.’

Maddie sent her a stern look. ‘I’m not making this up, I’m just interpreting your runes. They whisper to me, you know? Well, inside my head, anyway.’ She pointed at the final stone. ‘So that one basically says you’ve got to be strong. There’s going to be some delays or restrictions, and you have to rely on your inner strength.’

‘What? My plane will be late?’

Maddie leaned forward and gave her a playful shove. ‘No! It can mean that you have to face your fears, endure, survive. Be determined and patient. Stuff like that.’

Sara shook her head. Wasn’t that what she’d been doing already, this past year or more? And it wasn’t getting her anywhere. ‘Well, thanks for the reading. Can’t say I believe a word of it, but I wish you luck as a fortune-teller.’

‘Hey! The runes never lie.’ Maddie pretended to look offended, but her sparkling eyes gave her away.

‘Hmm, well, hopefully your next customer will be less sceptical.’

For herself, she’d just carry on working hard until the painful memories faded.

Chapter One



North Sea, Haustmánuður/late September AD 873

‘Are you sure we shouldn’t go back? That old fisherman said there’s a storm brewing.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous! Anyone can see the weather is perfect for a sea crossing. Besides, that was two days ago – it’s a bit late to turn around now.’

Rurik Eskilsson listened as the two men at the stern of the ship bickered. One was its owner, Sigvardr, the other a passenger just like himself, although much older than Rurik’s twenty-two winters. Well past his prime, in fact, the worry-guts was clearly not comfortable with being on board, and had been violently sick for most of the journey so far. His face held a grey tinge, and if he’d had anything left inside him, he’d probably still have been hanging over the gunwale.

A quick glance at the sky showed only an expanse of blue, but towards the horizon, clouds were undoubtedly gathering. Sigvardr was right, though – there was no point in turning around, as they were already more than halfway across the North Sea, having left Ribe in the land of the Danes the day before yesterday. Rurik touched the large Thor’s hammer amulet hanging around his neck and hoped the gods would keep them safe. His future plans did not include drowning in the salty depths of the ocean. Rather, he was on his way to a new life, an adventure, far from his family and friends, and he didn’t want anything to stand in his way.

He’d had to get away from her before he went insane, her golden loveliness as far out of his reach as it could possibly be . . . but he refused to think about that now.

‘Tie the sail tighter! Not like that, you fifl, properly!’ Sigvardr shouted out his orders, and Rurik hoped the man knew what he was doing and it wasn’t all bravado. He’d been in charge of a ship himself a few times, and as far as he could tell, Sigvardr was an experienced sailor. For a brief moment, though, he wished he was travelling with his older brother, Hrafn, instead. He had his own ship and had offered to take Rurik to his destination, but it was past time to cut the ties between them and strike out alone.

The swell of the waves increased, their tops foaming like horses that had been worked too hard. At first, the large ship cut through them smoothly without any problems, but when the wind picked up, the clinker-built vessel began to buck and creak as it rode the hills and troughs of water. It was superbly constructed, however, and Rurik didn’t doubt it could withstand much worse treatment. Norse vessels were made to be flexible yet strong, and it would take a lot to break it.

‘We should be sighting land towards dusk,’ Sigvardr commented. His voice was loud and carried over the wind so that everyone heard him, but the only one who replied was the worry-guts.

‘If we make it that far . . .’ he muttered ominously.

Rurik sent him a death glare, hoping to shut him up. No one wanted to listen to his fears, and he was the only one there who was scared. If they were meant to die this day, they would. You couldn’t change your fate – the Norns, ancient goddesses of destiny, had decided that ages ago – so what was the point of fretting?

For several hours the ship continued to plough through the waves, which were growing at the same time as a mass of grey clouds rolled over them. It was as if they were about to be smothered from above by an enormous feather bolster. Soon the light faded, even though it wasn’t evening yet. Rurik had been forced to cast up his morning meal, the churning motion too much even for him, but he’d not said a word. Neither had anyone else, and even the old man was quiet now, although that might have been because he was paralysed with fear. Certainly he was staring at the water with unblinking eyes, his knuckles white as he gripped the side of the ship.

The sail flapped furiously, ropes taut to the point of breaking. It was a good thing they were made from seal hide, a flexible and durable material, slightly greasy to the touch. The ship’s planks were groaning in protest, but the bottom didn’t fill up with water, despite the best efforts of the waves trying to break over the sides from all directions. The gunwales stayed above the waterline somehow, but that didn’t mean the passengers remained dry. The salty spray had by now drenched them anyway, and although it was only early autumn, Rurik was chilled to the bone. It was a miserable way to spend a day, that was for certain, and he scanned the horizon for a glimpse of land. It couldn’t be far off now.

It was darker still when a coastline finally rose up ahead of them, and Rurik could tell immediately that they were approaching it too fast and at an odd angle. Sigvardr started shouting more orders. ‘Man the oars! We have to row, away from those cliffs! Hurry now!’

There was a scramble to put the oars into the water. They’d been stowed along the inside of the gunwale on either side of the ship, and had to be passed to each man in turn, starting with the one furthest back. A simple loop of rope was fastened to the ship, then quickly slotted around specially carved notches on the oars, holding them in place. After that, it was just a question of developing some sort of synchronised rhythm, not easy when the ship was continuously tossed about, this way and that. Rurik was strong and used to rowing, and had no trouble following Sigvardr’s shouts of ‘One, two, one, two!’ but not everyone managed it and the ship didn’t make as much progress as it needed to. The cliffs came inexorably closer.

Through narrowed eyes, Rurik alternated between watching them and the water around the ship. It swirled like a cauldron about to boil over, and it was clear there were strong currents at work underneath the surface, pulling them along. There was absolutely nothing they could do; their rowing was to no avail. Their only hope now was to get as close to the coast as possible, and then perhaps they could steer the ship towards a beach or jump out and swim for it.

Sigvardr must have had the same thought. ‘Put your backs into it! If we can just head further that way . . .’ he pointed, ‘we should be able to—’

His words were cut off by an almighty crash. Rurik saw the bow of the ship rise almost vertically, its open-mouthed dragon carving tilting backwards. The men who’d been sitting at the front tumbled downwards, knocking each other over like gaming pieces. In the next instant, the planks of the ship were splintering, its hull breaking cleanly into two, and the water rushed in at tremendous speed. He realised they must have hit some underwater rocks, and there was no salvation from that. Men, planks, oars and loose objects scattered amid screams and the ominous noise of wood twisting and cracking. Acting on instinct, Rurik caught hold of a loose piece of the ship’s hull, just as the remainder of the ship collided with an even larger obstacle. He knew he’d need something to help keep him afloat, and that was the only thing to hand.

Flying through the air, he vaguely registered the screams of the worry-guts and acknowledged that the old man had had cause for his fear. There were other desperate shouts and swear words coming thick and fast, but all became muffled by the shock of icy water that closed over his head and filled his ears. He wanted to scream too, but remembered in time not to open his mouth. Instead he blinked and tried to see which way was up, not an easy thing to do in the murky water, and with only a glimmer of light above.

He was a strong swimmer, but the water fought for supremacy. He had to kick with all his might to reach the surface. In this he was helped by the piece of planking in his arms, which proved to be buoyant as he’d hoped. He held on to it for all he was worth and looked to see if he could help anyone. The worry-guts briefly appeared next to him, flailing and coughing. Rurik tried to catch hold of the old one’s tunic, but the material slipped through his hands and the man disappeared. More screams and shouts echoed around him, but his eyes stung with the salt water and he couldn’t see the others among the waves. Foam-topped hills of water washed over him, impeding his sight further. The currents propelled him away from the ship and he kicked with his legs and paddled with one arm as much as he could whenever he spotted land. He didn’t want to get sucked out to sea, and battled to go in the other direction. Although he was submerged over and over again, he was determined not to give in. Whatever the Norns thought, he didn’t believe it was his turn to die quite yet.

They must have agreed, because eventually, when he was sure he couldn’t go on much longer, he looked up to find a beach not too far away. That gave him the strength to carry on fighting until at last he was lying at the water’s edge among large boulders covered in bright green seaweed. Waves sloshed over him intermittently, but he barely felt them now. He dug his fingers into the rough sand as if to anchor himself, and managed to raise his body on to all fours.

‘Thank the gods!’ he exclaimed hoarsely, coughing and spluttering. The back of his throat felt as though it was on fire – he must have swallowed a goodly amount of salt water – but he didn’t care. He was alive.

A shiver went through him and he knew he couldn’t stay here. He needed to find shelter and get dry. But first he should look for the others, try to save any that he could. Where were they? Had anyone else survived? There was water in his ears still, but even when he shook that out, he couldn’t hear any shouts, only the howling of the wind and the crashing of waves against the shore. Gathering the very last shreds of his energy, he struggled to his feet and spotted some items bobbing up and down near the shore. One he recognised – the chest containing all his belongings, everything he needed for his new life, and it appeared to be intact. Thank Odin for that – what an incredible piece of luck! He and the other gods and goddesses had definitely been on his side today. He waded into the surf and grabbed the kist just before another huge wave tried to drag it back out to sea.

‘Oh no you don’t!’ he snarled at the swirling currents, which were trying to wrench the chest away from him. He wasn’t going to lose that if he could help it.

Back on dry land, he deposited the kist a safe distance from the water, then stumbled along the shoreline on legs that were none too steady, but he couldn’t see anyone. ‘Hello? Hello?’ He tried to call out, but his voice was croaky and what little noise he made the wind carried away, so he gave up and forced himself into action, jogging along the edge of the sea while scanning his surroundings for any sign of life. Nothing moved other than the waves and a lot of flotsam and debris. A couple of other sea chests drifted in the water, and he brought them ashore. One was broken and empty, the second undamaged but containing mostly soggy clothing.

After searching for some time, he was about to acknowledge defeat. He’d spied a cave set into the cliffs – the perfect place to build a fire and dry out, provided he could make his wet fire iron work and find some driftwood – but just as he turned his steps towards it, he finally saw pale shapes being tossed about in the foamy water a bit further along. He recognised the brightly coloured tunic of one of them.

‘Sigvardr? Sigvardr!’

He ran into the water, grabbing the man’s arms to haul him out, but as he laid him on the sand, he could see that it was too late. There was a huge gash on his head and no one could have survived a blow like that. A quick check revealed the truth of this – Sigvardr’s heart had stopped beating. He must have been thrown on to the underwater rocks or been hit by parts of the ship as it broke into pieces.

There was nothing Rurik could do for the man now other than drag him further up the beach. Later, when he was warm and dry, he’d bury him. It was what any brave man deserved, and he was sure Sigvardr would have done the same for him.

Two other people being washed ashore nearby had suffered more or less the same fate, and Rurik couldn’t do anything for them either, except to pull them out of the water. One was the worry-guts, and he felt a moment’s sadness thinking how the poor man had spent his last days so afraid. But he was with his ancestors now, or perhaps with Ægir the sea jótun and his wife Rán, not a bad fate.

‘Or maybe not . . .’ Rurik muttered.

He’d spotted the glimmer of metal at the man’s throat and pulled out a silver amulet in the shape of a cross. That would indicate a follower of the White Christ, one of those who attended meetings in the small wooden building in Ribe, whose bell he’d heard ringing several times while he waited for passage across the sea. A man in long white robes, who introduced himself as Bishop Ansgar – whatever that meant – had tried to entice Rurik in at one point, but he’d refused. His own gods were good enough; he had no need of any more, as had been proved this day.

Darkness was falling and Rurik needed to look after himself now or else he’d perish as well. Perhaps tomorrow he would find some of the others, although there seemed little hope of anyone else being alive. Desolation and a huge sense of loss swept over him. This was a wretched start to his new life, and he sincerely hoped it wasn’t a bad omen.

Chapter Two



Marsden Bay, Northumberland, late September 2019

‘This is absolutely stunning! Thank you so much for letting me see it.’

Sara reverently held a tiny pin between forefinger and thumb, twisting it round in order to study the workmanship. Norse, probably ninth century, it was an object most people might find insignificant, but as a jewellery maker herself, Sara knew exactly how much work had gone into creating it. And someone had done it over a thousand years ago, with nothing like the sophisticated tools at her disposal.

Amazing!

‘It was found in the grave, did you say?’ She looked at the man in charge of the dig, Robert McPherson. She’d been given special permission to visit because her grandfather was a renowned Swedish archaeologist and a friend of Robert’s from way back.

‘Aye, just over there, although the wee pin was more or less on the surface. Erosion most probably pushed it up.’ His Scottish accent wasn’t as strong as some, but he nonetheless rolled his r’s in a way Sara loved. ‘Why don’t you come over and watch? We’re getting down to the actual skeletons now and there are some fantastic finds coming to light.’ He looked around and whispered, ‘An Ulfberht sword!’

‘Seriously? Wow!’ Sara knew those were the best Viking swords ever made, and they were unmistakable as the smith had marked them all with his name.

‘Come on, they should have it out by now.’

‘Brilliant! May I just take a photo of this first, please? It’s giving me all sorts of ideas for designs and I don’t want to forget what it looks like. Something like this would be fabulous for my next collection.’

‘Sure, as long as you don’t publish the pictures anywhere yet, especially not on the internet. We like to drip-feed news of our finds to the journalists. Keeps them on their toes.’ Robert grinned and Sara nodded her agreement. The right kind of publicity, through the proper channels, might mean more funding, and projects like this always needed money.

She snapped images from every angle. Made of pure gold, the little pin was simple, but sharp enough to pierce any material, and topped by a beautifully shaped bird no larger than her thumbnail. It had a graceful curved neck, tiny wings that stuck up on either side of its body, and a narrow downward-curving beak. A raven, perhaps, or a bird of prey? The eyes were some sort of semi-precious stone – garnet probably – and the wings and neck were inlaid with niello, a dark effect produced by adding phosphate into engraved lines. You could clearly see a pattern of feathers. It was quite simply exquisite and she wished she could take it with her, but she’d have to try and make one for herself.

‘OK, I’m done. Here you go.’ She handed it back to Robert, who stowed it away in a special box lined with cotton wool, and then in a small safe.

‘Great, let’s go and see how they’re getting on outside then.’ He led the way out of the Winnebago he used as his office and over to the dig site, a blustery clifftop on the North Sea coast south-east of Newcastle. The cairn had been found recently after a violent storm had exposed the mound of stones and a human bone. Before that, it had apparently looked like just another grassy part of the terrain, and no one had given it much thought. ‘We had to excavate quickly, before anyone got the idea to dig for treasure,’ Robert told Sara as they walked. ‘And thank goodness we did!’

‘Indeed.’

A chilly September wind buffeted them during the short walk over to the trench, and Sara glanced at the sky, registering the dark clouds. ‘Lucky you’ve rigged up a tent,’ she commented, not envious of the archaeologists beavering away. This close to the sea they must get pretty cold after a couple of hours of trowelling. The tent was open on two sides, which meant the wind had free access even if it kept out any rain.

‘Yes, we can’t afford to lose time because of the weather. Hey, Adrian, anything new?’ Robert crouched near the edge of the trench and Sara followed suit. ‘Oh, you’ve got the second pelvis and skull now, excellent!’

‘Yep, and it’s definitely another male.’ The guy called Adrian smiled. ‘You never know these days, after that find in Birka.’

Sara must have looked blank, as Robert said, ‘Didn’t your grandfather tell you? A grave there contained a female warrior, complete with all her kit.’

‘Oh yes, I remember now.’ Her grandpa was always going on about this or that find, but she vaguely recalled hearing about that one. ‘So is this a warrior?’

‘Definitely. Most likely a chieftain, judging by the grave goods we’ve found so far. Not sure who the other two are. Perhaps his servants, as most of the items seem to belong to this guy. Hop down and have a look at this.’ Adrian, a lanky man who looked to be in his early thirties, held out his hand to help her into the trench while Robert jumped in by himself.

In a long box lined with what appeared to be slightly greasy wool lay the Ulfberht sword. The blade didn’t look like much at the moment – a rusted, pitted mess – but Sara knew that when examined under a microscope, it would be amazing. Probably pattern-welded steel that would have been sharp and deadly, as well as incredibly strong. The hilt was something else, though – bronze decorated with silver, it was a work of art and the silversmith in her was immediately impressed. ‘May I?’

Adrian held out the box to allow her a closer look. ‘We reckon ninth century, probably mid to late-ish,’ he said.

‘Mm-hmm.’ She always carried a loupe, and now she pulled it out of her pocket to better study the pattern properly magnified. Typical animalistic motifs with swirls and snarling beasts. ‘Lovely!’

Robert had hunkered down to study the skeleton that was emerging. ‘Any ideas yet as to what caused his death?’

‘Well, it appears he died from a vicious blow to the head. Look there.’ Adrian pointed to the skull he’d partially unearthed, where a hollow with splintered bone was clearly visible.

‘Ouch! Maybe he was part of the Great Heathen Army and the locals got the better of him,’ Robert mused.

Sara had heard of that – a huge army of Vikings that had roamed the British Isles in the late ninth century during the time of King Alfred the Great. ‘Did they come this far up?’ She’d thought they’d stuck mostly to the central and southern kingdoms of East Anglia, Mercia and Wessex.

‘Oh yes. Conquered all of Northumbria and toppled the kingdom of Alt Clud as well. You know, up in Strathclyde.’

‘Really? I had no idea.’

Robert and Adrian continued to examine the skeleton, and while Sara admired the sword hilt and pommel, they started discussing bone structure. She tuned out, as that sort of thing didn’t interest her at all. Eventually they stood up.

‘Coming, Sara? Tea break.’

‘Huh? Oh, yes please.’

She followed the two men and a couple of the other diggers towards a more substantial tent set up on a piece of common in between the coast and the nearest houses – presumably their makeshift canteen – but halfway there, she realised she’d dropped her phone when clambering in or out of the trench. ‘Sorry, Robert, but I’m going to have to go back. I think my mobile must have slipped out of my pocket – I forgot to button it up.’

‘Of course, go! We’ll have your tea waiting for you.’

The trench was deserted when she got there, and Sara glanced at the bones that were emerging from the dark soil. She couldn’t help but wonder how the warrior and his servants had ended up here on a lonely clifftop with no other graves around. ‘Hope you don’t mind them digging you up,’ she murmured to the biggest skeleton. ‘Don’t suppose that’s what your comrades had in mind when they buried you here.’

She looked for the mobile, which unfortunately was black. That made it more difficult to spot, and she’d walked almost the entire perimeter of the trench before she saw it. ‘Aha!’

When she picked it up, there was a text message. She read the sender’s name: Anders. Shit. How had he got hold of her new number? She’d have to block him. Again. Because here was probably yet another It didn’t mean anything, babe! Please get in touch – I still love you! message. Like hell it hadn’t meant anything. Cheating scumbag . . . And honestly, it had been over two years now. When was he going to get it through his thick skull that she would never take him back? He was only being this persistent because he saw her as his route to the top of the jewellery design industry. She’d won awards and her business was doing well, while he was working for a boring mail-order company creating generic old-lady-type jewellery. Once upon a time, they’d had grand ideas about working together, but he’d ruined all that and he had only himself to blame. She deleted the message unread. He could get stuffed.

‘Have the balls to start your own company,’ she muttered. ‘Not that anyone would buy your mediocre designs.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’m through letting you affect me.’

Just as she reached out a hand to climb out of the trench, she noticed a metallic flash nearby and hesitated. At the very edge of the trench, about halfway along, something was starting to protrude and had caught the light. Sara put the phone in her pocket, then touched the item with one fingertip, carefully stroking off some soil. Yes, definitely metal, and not iron, since it was shiny. She ought to go and fetch Robert, but first she wanted a quick peek to see what it was. It could just be junk, an old tin can or something, then they’d laugh at her for jumping to conclusions. Scraping at the dirt with her fingers, she bent down as a small rectangular shape began to emerge. She was mesmerised. What could it be?

A bit more digging, loosening the earth, and she suddenly had the inside part of the handle of a knife in front of her as some of the soil avalanched downwards. ‘Oh!’ She tugged at it experimentally and the entire knife came sliding out, its single-edged blade over a foot long and quite vicious-looking, with a pointed tip. ‘Whoa!’ The handle must have been made of bone or wood originally, she assumed, but this had rotted away and only the metal centre and end piece of it was left. The blade, however, was still largely intact, which was weird. If it was steel, like the Ulfberht sword, it ought to have been corroded and rusty. It wasn’t, though, and along the upper half there was a runic inscription picked out in gold.

With a grandfather who was an archaeologist specialising in the Viking period, Sara had learned to read runes at the same time as the ordinary alphabet. He’d also taught her some Old Norse, and recently she’d been taking lessons because her best friend Linnea had married a man who spoke nothing else. That was a strange story in itself, but she didn’t want to think about that now. First things first – what did this knife inscription say?

‘Með blōð skaltu ferðast.’ Absently she ran her finger along the blade as she read the words out loud, then swore as she felt the metal slicing into her finger. How could it be so sharp after being buried all this time? And those words, they rang a bell. Wasn’t that something similar to what Linnea had said she’d found on a Viking brooch? ‘With blood you shall travel’? Yes, that sounded about right.

Oh shit! That meant . . .

The realisation of what she might have done hit her just as she got an attack of the spin monsters so bad she nearly toppled over. ‘No, no, no!’ This could not be happening.

She had to stop it, but she couldn’t move and was having trouble staying upright. Her eyes opened wide as the earth seemed to come rushing up towards her, while nausea roiled inside her. There was a loud noise, like being in a room full of people all talking at once, with the wind whooshing in the background. Faster and faster her head spun, and she had to put out a hand to stop herself from falling head first into the skeleton.

She stumbled onto her knees, barely aware of her surroundings now. They were flashing past in a dizzying frenzy, like being on a merry-go-round that was totally out of control. She swallowed down the nausea and closed her eyes, then everything went black.

Chapter Three



‘How did you extract that seax from the mound? Give it back this instant!’

Sara opened her eyelids a fraction and blink. . .