Day of the Vikings. A Thriller. (ARKANE) (5 page)

“We need to go,” she said. “I’m not risking lives, and these Neo-Vikings are deadly serious.”
 

Blake stood up, a little unsteady on his feet after the visions. His chiseled features looked pained and his caramel skin was still a shade lighter. Morgan wondered how he coped with the things he saw, how he reconciled it with the physical world of the here and now. She thought back to the demon creature in the bone crypt of Sedlec, how her own worlds had collided then, how her beliefs in what was truly real had been warped and twisted. They had something in common, for sure.
 

Blake put his gloves back on, covering the ugly scars on his hands. Part of Morgan wanted to touch them, to stroke the lines of years of pain. But if she touched him, could he read her past? Could he see part of her shot to pieces with her husband Elian on the Golan Heights, or blown apart on the streets of Beersheba with her father? She wasn’t ready to let anyone come that close.

“We can go through the Mesopotamian Gallery and out by the restaurant,” he said, brushing the dust from his jeans. “The stairs lead directly down into the Great Court, but we’ll be easily spotted soon enough.”
 

Morgan nodded. “Good, I want them to see us coming. We can’t let them harm hostages. Are you OK now?”

Blake rubbed his eyes, blinking. “Yes, sorry. It’s a bit of an adjustment coming back.” His eyes fell to the staff she held. “Are you sure we should give it to them?”

The staff was cold iron in Morgan’s hand, chill metal that only spoke of the dead.
 

“From what you’ve said, the real prize is the Eye of Odin, and this staff needs some kind of activation to work its particular magic. Plus, I don’t think we have a choice at this stage.”

They walked together back through the hall of galleries, emerging through the columns of the classical temple facade that flanked the upper entrance to the Mesopotamian and Egyptian displays. The museum restaurant was empty, nestled in the shadow of the huge round exhibition hall that dominated the central space of the Great Court. White marble steps led down to the ground level entrance. At the top stood one of the Neo-Vikings, his hand on a modern Glock 26 pistol that looked out of place with his authentic clothing. The man gestured with his gun for them to walk down ahead of him.
 

Morgan had only been here when the Great Court was packed with tourists, their chatter a hubbub of life in the wide marble space. Now, it was silent except for the sobbing of those below. Their footsteps were loud as they descended the steps, rounding the corner to look down on the forecourt.
 

“Raise your arms,” Morgan whispered as she lifted her own, indicating their surrender, holding the staff high so it could be seen. Blake held his gloved hands up too, his eyes darting to the armed Neo-Vikings that looked up at them.

The hostages were bunched together in a group near the tourist information stand, only a few meters from the front entrance of the museum. Above them, the paneled glass ceiling of the Great Court arched across the space, sun dappling the marble floor with light. Morgan counted five men below with the Valkyrie
,
and one behind them on the stairs. They were all armed and also held shields now, great metal roundels that made Morgan wonder what they were needed for. She wouldn’t expect the British police or military to be storming in here any time soon, not without some negotiation, and even if they did, these shields wouldn’t be much use in the face of modern weaponry. But whatever this group had planned, they were surely near the end of it now.

Amongst the faces of the hostages that stared up at them, a few children huddled against their parents. Morgan could see a touch of Gemma in one little girl, and she was thankful that her niece was safe in Oxfordshire. After the sacrifices of Pentecost, she had sworn to make sure her family was never involved in her missions again.
 

When they reached the bottom of the staircase, two of the Neo-Vikings flanked them as the Valkyrie stepped forward. Morgan held out the staff and the woman took it, her hands mottled with age but her grip as strong as the iron staff itself.

“Why did you take it?” the Valkyrie asked, her eyes piercing.
 

Morgan stood with shoulders slumped, her head dropped as if she struggled to meet the woman’s eyes. “We were scared,” she said, her voice humble. “Please … I’m just an academic and I’m doing a paper on the staff. We didn’t know you wanted it. We just happened to be there. Truly.”

A moment’s silence, then the Valkyrie whipped the staff up, smashing it against Blake’s cheek. He didn’t have time to react, his head snapping sideways. He stumbled and dropped to his knees, clutching his face. A collective gasp came from the hostages.

“No,” Morgan cried. Her military instincts kicked in as she moved to take the Valkyrie down, but the big man behind grabbed her, forcing her arm up behind her back in a grip that told Morgan he knew what he was doing. He would not be as easy to defeat as the men upstairs.

“Stay still, or I’ll break your arm, bitch,” the man whispered.

“It’s OK, Morgan. I’m OK. Do what they want, please.” Blake was standing again. A cut had opened up high on his cheekbone, and blood began to soak through his gloves as he held his face. Rage bubbled inside Morgan. She longed for a weapon so she could deal with these people, but it wasn’t just her life that was at stake here.
 

“You’re clearly not just an academic,” the Valkyrie spat. “You sent two of my men back bruised and bloody. They will beat your friend here until you tell the truth, then I’ll move on to the children if you continue to lie.”

The Neo-Viking pushed Morgan’s arm higher, to the edge of breaking it.
 

“Alright,” she said. “I’m Dr. Morgan Sierra, from the
Arcane Religious Knowledge And Numinous Experience Institute. I am a researcher, but I’m also ex-Israeli Defense Force. When the aurora borealis was seen across England and the prophecies about the date of Ragnarok came up in my research, I found a link to this staff. I came to see it for myself.”

The Valkyrie nodded. “Then you have seen the days ahead. A storm is coming and you will be a witness for the truth of it, Morgan Sierra. I know of ARKANE. They will be the ones to validate the power of what is to come. And for your truth, I will spare your friend.” She turned to her men. “Secure them.”

The Neo-Vikings put plastic cuffs on Morgan and Blake, tugging their wrists behind their backs.
 

“Be a good girl now,” the one behind Morgan whispered as he ratcheted the cuffs tight. He licked her ear, his tongue wet and probing. “Or I’ll come back and teach you a lesson.”
 

Morgan exhaled deeply, forcing down her natural reaction to turn and teach him a bloody lesson. He would be screaming soon enough, but Blake and the other hostages would pay a price for her anger. She calmed herself.
 

The men pushed the pair to the floor and put plastic cuffs around their ankles, too. The hostages around them cast surreptitious glances, not wanting to draw attention to themselves. Morgan had seen this reaction before: the urge to keep quiet and avoid the captor’s wrath. But she had also seen it in photos, on the faces of those on the train cars, the Jews who had never come home again.

Blake’s cheek was swelling, and bruising had already appeared around the cut.
 

“Are you OK?” Morgan whispered, shuffling closer to him.
 

He nodded, but she could see he was still reeling from the blow and shocked by the sudden pain. “I’m doing better than him.”

Morgan turned to see two of the Neo-Vikings drag the curator out to the front of the hostage group, and push him to kneel in front of the Valkyrie. He stumbled. Morgan could see he was bleeding too, clearly having taken a beating for his insolence in the exhibition hall.

The Valkyrie raised her arms, holding the staff in a tight grip, pointing it to the sky above. It seemed like an extension of her arm and the way she held the heavy metal made it appear lighter … As if it belonged there. In the moment of silence, Morgan heard the faint thrum of a helicopter in the skies above.

“You’re witnesses to the beginning of a new age,” the Valkyrie said, her voice echoing in the marble hall. “Those of you who are left will report to your media and they will know that Ragnarok is upon us, that I will usher in the final battle by calling up the souls of the dead to vanquish this land like our ancestors did. Too long have we been pathetic in the eyes of the world. Too long have we concerned ourselves with unimportant things. But when the moment of death comes, that is when we realize the triviality of our existence. You will know this soon enough, for a storm is coming.”

The helicopter was louder now. Morgan thought perhaps it was the military finally come to free them, or a press helicopter capturing what must be a crazy scene outside.
 

The Valkyrie began to chant, using the iron staff to spin her words into the air around them. The wind began to blow, lightly at first, as if the doors had been opened to the world outside. It whirled about her as she chanted, the men joining for parts of the incantation, a response to her lead.
 

“
Nú er blóðugr örn breiðum hjörvi
,” she called, her eyes filled with a dread darkness. “Now comes the Blood Eagle with the broadsword.”
 

The curator’s head came up, his eyes wild as he clearly understood what she said. He struggled against those who held him.

“No,” he screamed. “Not that, please.”

He was dragged by two of the men in front of the Valkyrie. They forced him to his knees and held his mouth open while the seeress poured a dark liquid into his mouth, chanting ancient words of sacrifice. The man slumped into silence within a minute, his eyes glazed over, mouth drooling. The men turned him so his back was to the Valkyrie and ripped his clothes away to reveal his naked torso. The Valkyrie pulled an obsidian knife from her belt, tucking the staff in its place. The light reflected off the surface of the knife. In the glitter, Morgan saw the man’s death.
 

“Great Odin, accept this sacrifice as a herald of the New Age. The Blood Eagle will honor you,” the Valkyrie said, her words in English so all could hear. “Hold him tight now.”
 

Two of the men held the curator down as the Valkyrie plunged the knife into his back next to his spine. He screamed despite the sedation and his voice echoed through the Great Court, an animal cry of agony. The Valkyrie began to saw through his ribs and Morgan struggled in her bonds, desperate to stop the atrocity. One of the Viking men backhanded her, making her head ring. She lay stunned on the floor as the Valkyrie carved the curator’s body in the ancient way. The hostages around her wept, some frozen with terror, hiding behind each other, desperate not to be next for the slaughter.

As the Valkyrie finished separating a rib she pulled it out and away from the man’s body, her hands and arms coated with blood, the men on either side spattered with gore. The curator fell silent and slumped forward, shock shutting down his body, or perhaps dead already from the wounds. But the woman didn’t stop. She kept carving and pulling until the ribs formed hideous wings on either side of the man’s torso – the wings of the Blood Eagle. Finally, she reached in and pulled the man’s lungs from his chest, cutting them from him and offering the chunk of meat to the heavens.
 

“See this, Odin, and bless our final steps toward glory. Give me your vision now.”

The Valkyrie pulled a vial from a pouch at her belt, and sprinkled powder onto the bloody mess of the curator’s back. From Blake’s description of the Lindisfarne ritual, Morgan thought it must be some kind of powdered relic. The Valkyrie thrust the staff into the wound, coating the iron with fresh blood and powdered bone until it ran red, soaking the sleeves of her tunic.
 

She held the staff aloft again, spinning around and around, her robes flying out from her. She called out in Norse, a frenzy of blood and power upon her. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she spoke strings of words that Morgan couldn’t understand. The Valkyrie was in a shamanic ecstasy, seeing into realms beyond the physical. Could she see where the Eye of Odin lay?
 

“It is beginning,” the Valkyrie called. A vortex of winds seemed to be drawn in, spinning with her, sweeping the dust of the ancient place into the air until it spiraled upwards toward the glass roof. The hostages huddled together, shielding their eyes from the dust that whirled about them, but Morgan needed to see. The Neo-Vikings lifted their shields up over their heads, looking towards the roof as they did so. In that moment, Morgan knew what was going to happen.

THE VALKYRIE THRUST HER staff upward with a shout of triumph. The spiral of wind hit the glass roof with incredible force, smashing the panels, sending a rain of glass down on those below. With a last reserve of energy, Morgan flipped her body and with both feet, sprang for cover as the first shards of glass fell. Blake had the sense to follow her, using his bound feet to push himself along the floor. They made it under the shelter of the tourist information booth before the glass exploded on the marble floor.
 

Several of the hostages crammed themselves under the overhang along with them, and Morgan pulled one of the children tightly toward her, shielding the little girl’s head. Huge shards of glass fractured on the flagstones and the wind whipped the pieces like razors through the crowd as screams echoed through the Great Court. The Valkyrie stood unharmed in the eye of the storm as shards spun around her, while her men were shielded from the large pieces by their shields but were cut by the exploded fragments.
 

Morgan couldn’t take her eyes off the Valkyrie, as she thrust the staff upward again and again. The screams of the captives were peppered with groans as people were cut down while running for cover. It was chaos in the Great Court, but the Neo-Vikings were no longer concerned with the captives.