all die.”
Chapter 5
BLAKE WATCHED AS THE monks stood in mute silence for a moment, and then one whispered. The others turned. There was a flurry of gesticulation and heated argument. The eldest monk finally stepped forward, his steps faltering, his blue eyes misty with age or the fear of what was to come.
“Take me, but let my brothers leave. I will go soon to meet the Lord anyway.”
The seeress nodded, and the other monks hurried away, only one looking back at the brother they had left behind, regret and shame on his face.
“Make it quick, I beg of you,” the old monk said, using one of the altar rails to lower himself down, beginning to pray.
“I can’t give you that, old man, but perhaps your own god will hear your screams and your place in paradise will be assured.” She gestured to the two Viking guards. “Hold him.”
The monk struggled as they forced him to bend forward, his back to the völva, his prayers spoken in halting Latin, interspersed with panicked breath .
“Sed et si ambulavero in valle mortis non timebo …”
One of the Vikings ripped the monk’s habit, pulling it down to reveal thin, sagging skin on old bones. Tucking the staff into her belt, the seeress withdrew a long knife, its blade wickedly sharp with serrated edges.
“… malum quoniam tu mecum es virga tua … et baculus tuus ipsa consolabuntur me.”
With surprising strength, she thrust the knife into the monk’s back and began to wrench it up and down. The man screamed and writhed, but the Vikings held him as the seeress continued cutting, sawing his ribs away from his spine. Blake felt the pulse of the monk’s blood, his agony like a wave. He recoiled from the scene, sinking toward darkness into the tunnel that led back to the present day. The vision of the monk faded and his screams became little more than a whisper. But Blake knew he needed to know more, he had to see what came next in order to understand why the staff was so important. He pushed back along the tug of the staff, and emerged again into the chapel.
The stink of blood and feces filled the air, sweat and fear overlaying them. The monk’s body was laid on the floor by the altar now, his ribs splayed out from his spine revealing a bloody cavity where the seeresspulled his viscera out. Blood covered her hands, her fingers curled into talons with fingernails stained crimson.
“Get me a bone from the relic of their saint,” she rasped, her voice almost bestial. One of the Vikings went to the altar and opened the reliquary of St Cuthbert, taking the small finger bones out.
The seeresslaid the bones on the floor, squatting next to them and crushing them with the blunt end of the staff. She scattered the powder and slivers of bone over the bloody corpse of the monk, muttering words as she waved the iron staff over it. On the final word, she thrust the staff into the raw cavity of the still-steaming body, coating the iron with gore and clots of blood. She stood again and lifted the dripping staff toward the heavens, calling in a language that resonated with power.
“Great Odin, All-Father, give me your vision.”
Her eyes rolled back in her head, showing the whites, and she began to convulse. The whole chapel began to shake. The Viking men held onto the walls as the vibrations grew stronger. A great crack filled the air and the flagstones ruptured beneath their feet, steam pouring out and engulfing the seeress in its hot breath. Blake felt the heat in her transmuted through the staff, but she screamed in ecstasy, not pain, as the visions filled her.
“ Alt veit ek, Óðinn! hvar þú auga falt: í inum mœra Mímis brunni ,” shechanted, her eyes opening wider as she spoke, as if surprised by the words that came out of her mouth.
Blake felt her exhilaration as her mind filled with the knowledge of the gods, but only a fraction of what was possible.
“I know where Odin’s eye is hidden,” she called, “deep in the wide-famed
Chapter 5
BLAKE WATCHED AS THE monks stood in mute silence for a moment, and then one whispered. The others turned. There was a flurry of gesticulation and heated argument. The eldest monk finally stepped forward, his steps faltering, his blue eyes misty with age or the fear of what was to come.
“Take me, but let my brothers leave. I will go soon to meet the Lord anyway.”
The seeress nodded, and the other monks hurried away, only one looking back at the brother they had left behind, regret and shame on his face.
“Make it quick, I beg of you,” the old monk said, using one of the altar rails to lower himself down, beginning to pray.
“I can’t give you that, old man, but perhaps your own god will hear your screams and your place in paradise will be assured.” She gestured to the two Viking guards. “Hold him.”
The monk struggled as they forced him to bend forward, his back to the völva, his prayers spoken in halting Latin, interspersed with panicked breath .
“Sed et si ambulavero in valle mortis non timebo …”
One of the Vikings ripped the monk’s habit, pulling it down to reveal thin, sagging skin on old bones. Tucking the staff into her belt, the seeress withdrew a long knife, its blade wickedly sharp with serrated edges.
“… malum quoniam tu mecum es virga tua … et baculus tuus ipsa consolabuntur me.”
With surprising strength, she thrust the knife into the monk’s back and began to wrench it up and down. The man screamed and writhed, but the Vikings held him as the seeress continued cutting, sawing his ribs away from his spine. Blake felt the pulse of the monk’s blood, his agony like a wave. He recoiled from the scene, sinking toward darkness into the tunnel that led back to the present day. The vision of the monk faded and his screams became little more than a whisper. But Blake knew he needed to know more, he had to see what came next in order to understand why the staff was so important. He pushed back along the tug of the staff, and emerged again into the chapel.
The stink of blood and feces filled the air, sweat and fear overlaying them. The monk’s body was laid on the floor by the altar now, his ribs splayed out from his spine revealing a bloody cavity where the seeresspulled his viscera out. Blood covered her hands, her fingers curled into talons with fingernails stained crimson.
“Get me a bone from the relic of their saint,” she rasped, her voice almost bestial. One of the Vikings went to the altar and opened the reliquary of St Cuthbert, taking the small finger bones out.
The seeresslaid the bones on the floor, squatting next to them and crushing them with the blunt end of the staff. She scattered the powder and slivers of bone over the bloody corpse of the monk, muttering words as she waved the iron staff over it. On the final word, she thrust the staff into the raw cavity of the still-steaming body, coating the iron with gore and clots of blood. She stood again and lifted the dripping staff toward the heavens, calling in a language that resonated with power.
“Great Odin, All-Father, give me your vision.”
Her eyes rolled back in her head, showing the whites, and she began to convulse. The whole chapel began to shake. The Viking men held onto the walls as the vibrations grew stronger. A great crack filled the air and the flagstones ruptured beneath their feet, steam pouring out and engulfing the seeress in its hot breath. Blake felt the heat in her transmuted through the staff, but she screamed in ecstasy, not pain, as the visions filled her.
“ Alt veit ek, Óðinn! hvar þú auga falt: í inum mœra Mímis brunni ,” shechanted, her eyes opening wider as she spoke, as if surprised by the words that came out of her mouth.
Blake felt her exhilaration as her mind filled with the knowledge of the gods, but only a fraction of what was possible.
“I know where Odin’s eye is hidden,” she called, “deep in the wide-famed
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