“Sól tér sortna, sígr fold í mar, hverfa af himni heiðar stjörnur.”

 

“The sun turns black, earth sinks in the sea. The hot stars down from heaven are whirled.”

Völuspá, Prophecy of the Seeress, from the Icelandic Poetic Edda

 

 

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 visions, a glimpse of the other side. Too much and they would die here in shaking fits and voided bodies. She took a long sip, blood staining her mouth, and then passed it to the first man kneeling before her.

The woman’s eyes flickered as the warm blood trickled down her throat and the drug began to work in her.

She looked up at the aurora above the standing stones, the glory of the heavens. Surely it was Asgard, home of the gods, revealed through the portal of the firmament above. The branches of Yggdrasil, the world tree, entwined their realms together, its leaves made from the sinews of warriors who perished with the name of Odin on their lips.

Too long had she waited, her patience tested by the gods, but now it was finally time.

The cawing of ravens began as a far-off sound but then a host of them flew across the sky, highlighted by the colors of the aurora. They circled the group below, their shrieking filling the stone circle, almost blocking the eerie light. It seemed like a thousand thousand of them thronged the skies, their cries a paean to the All-Father, a blessing on their acts in His name.

The men on their knees were transfixed by the whirling birds, their black feathers shining with the hues of the bright sky, at once emerald green and then slashed with bright vermilion.

“Odin the Raven God is come to us,” the woman cried out, her hands raised toward the winged messengers, blood still staining her flesh. “Here are Huginn and Muninn, thought and mind, the ravens that Odin sends out to search for knowledge. Here is our sign, and now is the time. We will go south and retrieve that which will bring us power again.”

 

 

Chapter 1

Morgan Sierra walked through the grand Neo-Classical entrance of the British Museum into the Great Court. The early morning sun filtered through the paneled glass ceiling high above, casting lined shadows onto the cool stone beneath her feet. Morgan couldn’t help but smile to be here again, a place of magic for anyone as obsessed with seeking knowledge as she was. Part of her wanted to turn right toward the Enlightenment Gallery, where every object was a gateway to another rabbit hole of research. Coming here had once been for pleasure only, but now this kind of research was part of her job at the Arcane Religious Knowledge And Numinous Experience Institute, known as ARKANE – the world’s most advanced and secret research center for investigating supernatural mysteries.

For a moment, a shadow crossed her face. The last time she had been here, the main exhibition had been religious relics, the blood and bone of saints, sponsored by a man she had later seen turn into a demon in the bone church of Sedlec. Morgan’s hand rose to her left side, where the scar he had carved still throbbed in the cold of morning. She shook her head, casting aside the memories. Every mission with ARKANE had its own blend of violence and mystery, and Morgan had accepted both as part of her new life.

After Budapest, she had asked for some time to investigate a book that had been sent to her from Spain, the address label in her father’s handwriting although he had been killed by suicide bombers years ago. The impossible package was on her mind now, but Director Marietti had deemed this more urgent, and she had been sent to investigate an artifact on loan to the museum from a private collection of Viking ritual objects. With Morgan’s background in the psychology of religion, Marietti thought she would be ideally placed to assess whether ARKANE should send a replica back to the exhibition so they could study the actual artifact privately in the secret vaults below Trafalgar Square.

“Dr. Sierra?”

Morgan turned toward the voice.

“Good morning. The curator sends his apologies, but he’s preparing for a big tour. I’m Blake Daniel, another researcher here. He’s briefed me on your request, so I’ll be taking you through to see it.”

Morgan hid her surprise at his appearance with a smile of welcome. With coffee skin and piercing blue eyes, a number-one buzz cut and designer stubble, Blake looked as if he had just come from the set of a music video, not the dusty corridors of the museum. A fleeting thought crossed her mind that she wouldn’t say no to a drink with him either.

Blake held out a hand and Morgan noticed his gloves, a light mocha color that ensured they didn’t stand out too much against his darker skin. It struck her as strange nonetheless to be wearing them indoors on a day that was already warming up. She shook his hand, wondering why he wore them.

“So, tell me about the ARKANE Institute,” Blake said, as he led the way around the Great Court toward the Sainsbury Wing where the special Viking exhibition was being held. “It must have some clout considering how fast your request to see the exhibit was processed.”

“The Institute is mainly a group of academics working as a collective. We publish academic articles and run seminars, primarily around religious artifacts and unusual findings.”

And then there’s the rest of it, Morgan thought.

The secret side of ARKANE, with agents working on supernatural mysteries around the world, generally at the flash points of religion and the occult. The ARKANE that held relics and sacred objects of power in the vaults deep under Trafalgar Square. The ARKANE where agents died to keep the rest of the world safe from things that most wouldn’t even believe possible. The ARKANE that had threatened her family, and still woke Morgan with nightmares of flames and blood.

Blake turned into the Egyptian hall, where they walked past the Rosetta Stone and gigantic heads of the pharaohs. Every step within the British Museum was packed with treasures that alone would be wondrous, but here were dwarfed by the sheer volume of history. It was a place to be lost in wonder for days, and Morgan was fleetingly jealous of Blake for working here.

“So, what’s your particular interest in the staff of Skara Brae?” Blake asked. “It’s not exactly the focal point of the exhibition. In fact, it’s more of a sideshow.”

Morgan smiled, for the rabbit hole of intellectual curiosity was her own addiction and anyone who worked in the museum would understand her fascinations.

“I found an obscure reference in the Icelandic Konungsbók,” she said. “It tells of a year in which floods would rise and the aurora borealis would be seen in southern lands; when the blood of a völva, a shamanic seeress skilled in illusion, would awaken the demons of old and they would usher in the final winters, heralding Ragnarok.”

“That’s the Viking apocalypse myth, right?” Blake asked, as he led the way through the galleries. “The fabled fall of the gods, when the final battle between all races will bring the giant sea serpent from the ocean and would lead to the world being submerged in water.”

Morgan nodded, pleased to find someone so well-versed in the lore. “Of course, Britain has experienced record flooding this year and the aurora was seen in the most southerly parts of the country. Very unusual. As I delved further into the prophecy, I discovered the staff of Skara Brae which has an unusual rune. I wanted to see it for myself, rather than just in photographs, and this seemed like a good chance to examine it.”

Blake pulled open a double door, waving his hand to indicate she should enter first.

“This is the back door to the exhibition, as I presume you want to skip the preliminaries. The coins, gold and jewelry are nothing to what’s in the main hall, and I’ve put the staff in a side room so we won’t be disturbed when the exhibition opens up to the public.” He checked his watch. “We’d better get moving actually, as the first visitors will be in soon. The Vikings seem to be quite the popular thing these days. We’re sold out daily.”

The main exhibition hall was huge, dominated by the remains of a Viking longship found in Roskilde, Denmark. Ancient spars formed part of the vessel, held in shape by a metal frame with open ribs to see inside. Even with its skeletal appearance, the sheer magnitude of the ship was impressive. Glass cases and information boards surrounded the central focus on all sides, but the boat was clearly the highlight of the exhibition.

“I think more people are coming to see this than your staff,” Blake said. “Although we do have some rather good swords, as well.” He gestured to a glass case containing longswords and metal axe heads.

The clinical display didn’t do much for the imagination, but Morgan knew the damage a blade could do on a human body. Her scar throbbed at the memory. “We even have a Neo-Viking group coming today,” Blake continued.

“Neo-Viking?” Morgan asked, turning away from the sword case.

“Yes, apparently it’s all the rage at the moment. Something to do with the popularity of Game of Thrones and how much it’s influenced by Norse mythology. Of course, we Brits have always liked dressing up and doing pitched battles for tourists at castles.” Blake grinned. “This is just another iteration on the theme. The group will be in later, so we might catch a glimpse of them. The curator is excited by their enthusiasm – there are some impressive beards, according to their website.”

Blake raised an eyebrow, and Morgan couldn’t help but smile at the thought of what a band of Neo-Vikings might look like.

She turned to look into another display case. At sight of what it contained, the smile died on her lips. A metal conical helmet sat above a Viking jawbone, the teeth still intact in a macabre grimace. These men were not to be ridiculed.

“They filed their teeth,” Blake said. “And colored the grooves between them, as well as tattooing their skin to intimidate those they set to plunder.”

Morgan imagined a longboat the size of this hall filled with warriors of this ferocity, and her hands itched for a weapon. She had once vowed to leave physical violence aside, after the death of her husband Elian in a hail of bullets on the Golan Heights. She left the Israeli Defense Force for academia, but ARKANE had thrown her back into the fray. These days she understood that the adrenalin rush of the fight was just as much a part of her as her intellectual curiosity, and she was slowly beginning to accept her shadow self.

Blake pushed open a door at the back of the exhibition hall and led Morgan into a small room.

“Here it is: the staff of Skara Brae. There are two other staffs, as well, which we’ve left in the case out in the main exhibition hall.”

The staff lay on a white table with a pair of white gloves next to it for careful handling. Not that she’d be able to do any damage to it, Morgan thought, for the staff was iron and well made. The top was thicker than the rest, designed with a woven pattern, representing the threads of fate that could be controlled through spinning or entwining, or cutting and burning.

“You can see the inscription here,” Morgan said, pointing at the rune carved in the middle of the staff. It was a geometric pattern of lines and curves and cross-hatches. “It’s called ægishjálmr, the helm of awe, which Vikings believed had the power to invoke illusions and fear through incantation and inscription. This staff is the only example of its kind found in the world with this rune. The völva, or seeress, who held this would have been considered powerful enough to span the nine worlds of the Viking Yggdrasil.”

The word völva meant ‘staff bearer,’ and they practiced seidh, a sorcery that bound the natural world to that of the gods. These women were powerful, with the ability to read and write runes, casting their will upon the world. Morgan had discovered that most of the staffs and swords found in graves had been bent or rolled, ritually ‘killed’ when the owner died. It was said that this made the powers disappear, that they were lost into the earth.

But this staff hadn’t been bent, or rolled. It was pristine. Did that mean it could still be wielded by those who knew the rites? Once, Morgan would have laughed at the idea, but the things she had seen in the fires of Pentecost, the bone church of Sedlec and the Egyptian temple of Abu Simbel had opened her eyes. This physical world was not all there was, and only those with eyes that could see beyond knew the truth.

Morgan put on the gloves and picked up the staff, its iron weight heavy in her hands. It had the heft of a poker kept by an open fire to prod the coals, a practical object, not something ethereal like an imagined fantasy wand. In her years of practicing Krav Maga, the Israeli martial art, Morgan had used pieces of metal like this as weapons many times. Used as a club, this could surely kill, but was it more than a lump of metal? Were its properties even something that could be empirically studied in the ARKANE labs?

She laid the staff down again and bent closer to examine the rune.

 

 

Chapter 2

Blake watched as Morgan leaned closer to the staff, brushing a long dark curl from around her face. Her eyes were cobalt blue with a slash of violet in the right eye that made Blake want to learn what else was unusual about Dr. Sierra.

He had read up on the official side of ARKANE, but Morgan was not what he had expected from a purely academic research institute, and he had his suspicions about what else they might be involved in. Morgan was toned muscle under her slight curves, and she moved with the grace of someone acutely aware of her surroundings – the type of vigilance he would expect of someone in the military. There was some kind of accent in her words, a hint of Israeli perhaps, and she looked to be Mediterranean in origin. With a name like Sierra, Spain would be the obvious choice.

His own mixed heritage made the cultural guessing game a regular pastime for Blake. His blue eyes were from his Swedish father, and his darker skin tone from his Nigerian mother. He would have an Afro if he let his hair grow any longer, but he preferred the razor buzz cut. London was the perfect place to people watch and guess where they had traveled from, or perhaps where their great grandparents had originated. This was a true multicultural city, and one that embraced the stranger, since all were outsiders in some form. This was the Britain he loved and belonged to, the endless meshing of culture in the river of city life.

“Do you have any more information on the grave it came from?” Morgan asked, standing up straight. “Or if other grave objects were found with it?”

Blake shook his head. “The curator said that little is known about the staff, which is why he was happy for me to show it to you. Believe me, if he had known anymore, he would have scheduled several hours to talk to you himself.”

A flicker of dangerous thought surfaced in Blake’s mind as he spoke. He usually preferred to keep quiet about it, but he had an unusual gift that could perhaps help Morgan in her quest for knowledge. Some called it clairvoyance, others psychometry. In his darkest moments, Blake knew it for the curse that it was. Whatever its name, he could read objects through their emotional resonance. The gloves he wore protected him from accidental contact, but they also covered a patchwork of ivory scars, where his religious father had tried to beat the visions from him.

A babble of voices came from the main exhibition room, breaking their quiet study. Blake could hear the curator speaking loudly, his excitement at sharing his work causing his words to run into one another.

“The ship was built after 1025 AD and from stem to stern it’s thirty-six meters, which makes it the longest Viking ship ever discovered. We have calculated that there would have been thirty-nine pairs of oars, with seventy-eight rowers to serve them.”

Blake couldn’t help smiling at how bored the group must be with all the facts and figures, but it wasn’t often that the curator got to hold forth to so many. Most people just wanted to see the longswords, and the bones of the decapitated Vikings held in the central exhibit, clearly the result of a massacre. British pride perhaps, fighting back against the widely held belief that Vikings raped and plundered with no defiance from the local population.

Morgan was still examining the iron staff, so Blake pulled open the side door a crack, trying to catch a glimpse of the Neo-Viking group that the curator was escorting.

There were several groups of other tourists in the exhibition hall, but the Neo-Vikings weren’t hard to spot. There were five men wearing rough-spun tunics over long trousers, wrapped round the middle with leather belts. They had fur skins over their shoulders, real ones by the look of them. Their faces were expressionless, even as they were shown the case of the Norse helmet and jawbone.

One of the men wore a close-fitting tunic that revealed muscular arms, his left bicep tattooed with a raven in flight, its feathers entwined with rune letters. The man’s eyes darted around the room, taking in everyone’s position. He seemed strangely dissociated with what they were supposedly here to view.

The group shifted as they moved to the next case, revealing a woman in their midst. She could have been anywhere between fifty and seventy, her features wrinkled but her skin glowing with an inner radiance. Her dark eyes were sharply focused on the curator, as if sucking his words into a bottomless pool. Her long gray hair was wound into a plait that hung down her back, with one blue streak that ran through it like the lapis lazuli jewelry held in the Egyptian rooms next door.

“The Neo-Vikings are here,” Blake said, turning back to Morgan with a smile. “They look pretty convincing, actually.”

She looked up at him just as an explosion shook the building and the high-pitched shriek of the emergency alarms filled the air.

 

 

Chapter 3

The explosion was completely unexpected in this hall of ancient knowledge, but Morgan’s military training kicked in and she pulled Blake to the floor, under the protection of the broad table while the alarm shrieked around them. In these old buildings, the threat of falling plaster and stone could be worse than any initial damage. Part of her expected more explosions.

“I’ve got to go and help with the evacuation,” Blake shouted above the wail of the alarm and the screaming voices from the exhibition hall. “We’ve got to get everyone out of here.”

He tried to get up, but Morgan pulled him back down.

“Wait,” she said. “In Israel, this kind of thing is part of our daily drill. You don’t run yet, because you could be running into something worse.”

Her mind flashed to her days in the IDF: the bomb attacks she had experienced, the soldiers she had treated for PTSD … her father’s body blown apart by a suicide bomber, a sack of oranges spilled on the road amongst severed limbs.

There was something very wrong here.

She checked her phone – no reception. Then she heard it. In between the rhythmic siren noise, it was quiet. The screams had been silenced.

“Listen,” she whispered. “Next door.”

Blake cocked his head sideways. “Maybe the people have been evacuated?”

“Stay there. I’m going to have a look.”

Morgan scooted out from under the table and went to the door, pulling it open a tiny crack as Blake had done minutes before.

People lay on the floor, hands on their heads, while around the room, the Neo-Vikings stood with handguns drawn. The alarm suddenly stopped and the sound of smashing glass filled the room. There was a gasp from the floor.

“You can’t!”

A cry of pain followed as one of the men kicked the curator into silence.

Across the room, Morgan saw an older woman reach into a glass case. She lifted out one of the iron staffs and examined the surface before flinging it to the floor. The crash brought another collective gasp from the hostages. The woman took out the second staff, examining it with jerky movements, like an addict desperate for a fix.

“Where is it?” she said, quietly at first, her voice a Scottish lilt. “Where is the real staff?”

The woman spun around and Morgan saw burning fury in her eyes, her hands clenched into claws.

“Bring the curator here.”

As two of the big men dragged the curator from the floor, Morgan knew she only had seconds to make a decision. The woman wanted the staff of Skara Brae, but once she had it, what would she be able to do with it? Not so long ago, Morgan would have given up the lump of iron with no question. She would save these people from harm and the witch would leave with her staff. But Morgan’s perception of the world had changed after what she had seen with ARKANE.

Sometimes darker things were at stake.

The men pushed the curator to his knees before the woman.

“The staff of power isn’t here,” she whispered. “Where is it?”

“How dare you come in here and threaten these people!” the curator blustered, straightening his spine, words infused with the pride of the British Empire. “This is the British Museum, a place for everybody to see these wonders, not your private shopping center.”

Morgan’s heart thumped in her chest at his foolhardy words. Couldn’t he see the intent in the old woman’s eyes? Could he only see a group he had laughed at with his colleagues this morning? With her military training, Morgan could probably stop some initial harm coming to the man, but there were too many of the Neo-Vikings and no backup.

She was powerless to stop whatever might happen.

She felt movement behind her and breath on her neck. Blake was at her side, watching through the gap over her shoulder. Adrenalin surging and senses heightened, Morgan felt the heat of him standing close to her, and smelled a hint of clean soap on his skin.

The old woman laughed and then began to chant, her voice morphing into that of the völva, the shamanic priestess. Her fingers wove in the air, spinning and dancing, as she spoke words of power that had long lay dormant. The Neo-Viking men looked at the floor as if scared to watch, but the others in the room were captivated, staring at the woman. She looked mad, unhinged.

Then, the rattle of bones filled the air and a gasp of horror rippled around the room.

From the pit of the slaughtered Vikings, the bones rose into the air, disjointed skeletons spinning above the hollow Viking ship, beginning to knit back together before their eyes. Morgan heard Blake’s sharp intake of breath next to her ear.

“I am the Valkyrie,” the woman said. “I am the Corpse Goddess who decides who lives and who dies, who comes to feast in Valhalla until Ragnarok.”

Some of the skeletons were missing heads, but they began to move in the air regardless, flexing bony joints, as if just waking up. Morgan blinked and rubbed her eyes. Part of her understood that the priestesses were fabled experts of illusion, but she could smell the decay; she could see the hacked ends of the men’s fingers, where they had tried to defend themselves against the slaughter so long ago. 

“Your security has been overpowered,” the Valkyrie said. “All visitors and employees have been evacuated except for you, and my men will be spreading out through the museum. You’re all my hostages until I get that staff. Give it to me now, old man, and perhaps I won’t release the einherjar amongst you all.”

The curator’s eyes widened at this, and Morgan remembered from her research that the einherjar were a band of warriors who had died in battle and awaited the day of Ragnarok to herald the final war cry. Were these skeletal figures truly the vanguard of the woman’s ghostly army, or was it all just illusion?

Morgan pushed the door shut. There was no time to wait any longer. The curator would give them up any second.

“We have to go now,” she whispered, grabbing the staff from the table. “They want this and I’m afraid if we give it to them, things will get a whole lot worse.”

Blake’s face was a mask of confusion and wonder. Morgan saw the flicker of indecision in his eyes before he seemed to settle on trusting her.

“The emergency exit leads out to the back of the building onto Montague Place,” he said, pushing the exit door. “This way.”

They walked quickly away from the room to another door that led out to a main exit. Morgan pushed the door slightly and peeked through the gap. One of the Neo-Vikings stood guard there, one hand on the pommel of a broadsword and the other holding a gun.

Morgan pushed the door closed again. “We can’t get out this way.”

“Then we have to go up and over, across to the exits on the other side of the building,” Blake whispered.

The crash of a slamming door echoed through the corridor, followed by a roar of disappointment.

“Find them!” The Valkyrie’s words were followed by several sets of footsteps heading in their direction.

“This way,” Blake said, running up a staircase on light feet.

Morgan ran after him, past mosaics from Halicarnassus and Carthage, the once-bright colors now dull with age. There were spiraling vines, dolphins leaping through the waves and Roman nobles feasting, crowned with laurel wreaths. Celebrate, Morgan thought, for tomorrow we die.

At the top of the stairs they turned into the upper galleries, where Egyptian death and afterlife were displayed and explained. The dead were bound in linen and laid in wooden cases, the inner caskets painted with the gods and symbols of prosperity in the everlasting. Their skin was burnished leather, features shrunken but still visible, even down to perfectly preserved eyelashes. Morgan shuddered. Skeletons were one thing, but she didn’t want these bodies coming to a semblance of life again.

The heavy footsteps were almost behind them now. There was no way they would get out without being caught.

“Down,” Morgan said, pushing Blake behind one of the display cases so he wouldn’t be seen.

She spun around to stand just inside the door to the next room, next to an exhibit of shabti figures – servants for the afterlife in blue-glazed faience and serpentine. She held the iron staff high like a baseball bat ready to strike. If the old witch wanted it for death, maybe they should start with some of her own men.

The adrenalin pumped now and Morgan’s heart pounded. Once upon a time she had called it fear, but her years in the IDF had trained that out of her. Now, she called it anticipation.

She itched to hit something, craving the rush that only violence could soothe. Life was simple when it came down to survival; movement into battle felt like a meditation. In a flash, she understood why the Vikings had roamed the world, raiding and exploring new places, and why perhaps these men craved the same existence.

A footstep came from just outside the doorway.

As the first man walked through, Morgan swung the iron staff at his face, aiming behind his head. He leaned back in reaction, but the metal bar slammed into his nose anyway, the crunch of bone resounding in the empty hall. The man reeled, clutching his face, blood streaming through his fingers as he fell to his knees groaning.

A second Neo-Viking stood behind him, over six foot, a meaty man with piggy eyes who squinted at the staff as if he could barely see it.

“You defile the sacred,” he rasped. “Give it to me, bitch, and I may let you live.”

Morgan stood to face him, slamming the iron staff into her opposite palm. She smiled, her eyes cold.

“Come and get it.”