Blood of the Bear: Prologue – a free extract
This is the Prologue of my latest novel Blood of the Bear, the fifth and final volume in the Fire Born Viking series, which is out on October 10, 2024. I hope you enjoy it – it is, I think, suitable spooky for the month of Hallowe’en – but if you want to read more of this story you will have to order the book. Click here.
Prologue
A bargain struck in darkness
The hooded man paused outside the entrance of the low, reed-built hut and shivered. But not from the cold, damp climate of this northern marsh. It was fear. Pure and simple. Fear of this place – terror of the powerful one who lurked inside this dwelling.
A pair of otter skulls on short ash poles guarded the entrance, set up on either side of a greasy leather flap that served as a door. The huge nasal cavities of these long-dead animals seemed to yawn like extra mouths, the two long canines extending down from the upper jaw appeared as a pair of monstrous fangs, and the bone itself had been stained brown with sacrificial blood.
The hooded man made the sign of the Holy Cross, his right finger moving from crown to chest, then left shoulder over to right. But, even as he made it, he doubted the protection of this habitual gesture would offer him. Strong magic was here. He could smell it. He was breathing in its stench. Foul magic, the essence of sin – seithr, they called it – and the hooded man knew its author, the powerful individual who could summon the demonic powers, they said, and shape them to his malign will.
They called him the Crow and this was his nest. This reed-walled hut with tendrils of smoke seeping from the roof. Evil lurked within.
The hooded man was no coward, yet coming so close to this damp dwelling in southern Jutland unmanned him, it filled his guts with an icy chill. His immortal soul was at peril. He felt far away from God, and from his only son Jesus Christ. Far away from his own home and all that he knew. Yet this dark deed must be done. He did it to further the glory of the Lord of Hosts. And so it was surely God’s will. A marsh bird shrieked in the distance, the sound like a girlish scream, and the hooded man started violently. He cursed himself for a foolish child, afraid of strange noises in the dark.
“Christ, protect me in this place,” he whispered.
It was deep dusk, the witching hour, and a light rain was beginning to fall.
He stepped forward and entered the foetid interior. He called out a greeting in a voice full of false boldness, but there was no reply. Yet, crouched over a few embers in the sunken hearth, he could easily make out a small figure in the darkness. The hooded man heard the exhalation of breath and saw the embers glow brighter, and a cloud of some kind of dark powder falling upon the glowing coals . . .
A bright flash of light, searing to the eyes and the impression of a short, stooped figure, in a dark, hairy cloak, the garment bedecked with seaweed, bones and shells, his face painted fantastically with red, black and white whorls . . . Then the image was gone, back to the darkness. The hooded man’s eyes burned.
“You came alone?” the Crow said.
“I did,” replied the hooded man. “As you instructed me to.”
“You were not followed?”
The hooded man shook his head.
“And you are fully prepared to go through with our arrangement?”
“I would not be here otherwise.” The hooded man tried to sound confident.
The Crow made a hissing noise.
The stench in the hovel was almost overwhelming – rotten meat and decay, overlaid with a mouldy spiciness, the smell of clogged ditches. And something else, a fruity odour, like perfume a fine lady might dab at her bosom. The man felt lightheaded. The Crow threw a few sticks on to the fire and the flames licked upward.
By this new light, the Crow seemed less terrifying. He rooted around in the mound of rubbish behind him, a mass of ancient bones, filth and rags. The sorcerer found what he was looking for, and held it over the flame for an instant to see it more clearly. It was an iron knife – short, wide-bladed, encrusted with old dirt.
“I need blood,” he said. “Give me your hand, Chrissstian.”
The hooded man hesitated.
The Crow smiled at him. His black-lipped mouth revealed teeth filed into sharp points, like some savage animal. The hooded man felt his fear begin to rise again.
“There mussst be trusst between usss,” the Crow hissed. “Your hand.”
The hooded man paused a little longer then slowly extended his left hand.
The Crow took it in his own stick-like claw, and made one quick incision into the meat below his thumb. The hooded man felt the burn of it, and more pain as the Crow squeezed the flesh until the hot blood began to run freely.
The sorcerer tossed aside the knife and reached into the bosom of his robe. He brought out a small leather pouch, a dark shapeless thing. He undid the leather thong securing the bag with his pointed teeth, and pulled it open. It seemed to be filled only with a wad of thick, blond hair. The pain in his hand flared again, the sorcerer was squeezing it so that some drops of running blood slid over his palm to drip into the interior, darkening the yellow strands.
“Christian blood isss bessst for ssseithr,” the Crow said, conversationally.
The hooded men said nothing. He bit his lip. When the Crow released his hand, he took it and cradled it in the other. He looked reproachfully at the Crow.
“A very sssmall price for the gloriousss prize you crave,” said the sorcerer. “You have made an exsssellent bargain thisss night.”
The hooded man just licked at the angry, bloody cut on his left palm, tasting the salty iron tang of his own gore.
The Crow loosely re-tied the thong on the pouch. “Now, go, wait for me outside,” he said. “I mussst be alone to work the ssseithr. It will not take long.”
The man rose and stumbled quickly outside into the rain and the darkness. He felt relieved to be away from the sorcerer’s dank stench.
He looked up at the blanket of dark cloud above, feeling the cool drops spattering on his face. He could hear the Crow chanting inside the hovel, low and menacing, the words unintelligible, half-mumbled, half-sung deep in the throat.
There was more grey smoke coming from the eves of the reed house, and strange, sweet smells, too. He sat on the damp ground, holding his cut hand and looked out over the cold, empty marsh – not a light to be seen in any direction. This was no land for Christian men; this was no place for good men at all. It was a place for frogs, rats and eels – and all your darkest terrors. It was just the place to make a bargain with the Devil at the risk of your own soul. One day, perhaps, he would build a fine new church here and cleanse this whole place of its infernal stain. One day. He thought about what he meant to do with the seithr the Crow was preparing, and what godly things he hoped to achieve with it.
It was an excellent bargain, he thought. But not without a heavy price. He would commit a sin, a grave sin, a mortal sin for which he must seek absolution – only after it was done. But a fine bargain, no less. And for the greatest cause of them all.
The leather flap of the door cracked open and the Crow emerged. He was a little taller than the hooded man remembered from their previous meetings in daylight, much leaner too. It was as if this fell place had changed his body somehow. Yet the same foul stink came off him. And the whorls of red and black paint on his face were smudged, as if by a careless hand wiping his sweat.
The hooded man scrambled hurriedly to his feet.
“Take thisss,” said the Crow. He pushed a soft, squashy leather object into the hooded man’s hand. It was warm and wet. “You mussst keep it ssssafe.”
“What must I do?”
“Place it high, near the place where he sssleepsss. Hidden. The magic works bessst when mind and body are at ressst. Raftersss are good or in thatch.”
“When will he come here?”
“He will come at Yule. You must lodge it near hisss sssleeping place then.”
“At Christmas,” said the hooded man and turned to go. “It shall be done.”
“Wait,” the Crow seized him by his jerkin and pulled him close. He looked into his frightened eyes. “I ssshall know if you fail to do your part,” he hissed.
The hooded man could not meet the sorcerer’s gaze; he flinched away.
“I ssshall know if you play me falssse,” the Crow whispered, “and you will sssuffer agoniesss; sssuch pains in your sssoul. But if you do as I sssay, I will use my power to grant your heart’sss desire. But only if you sssucceed in the tassssk – do thisss and I will reward you . . . but only when Bjarki Bloodhand has lost hisss Fire Born ssstrength, and that hateful Rekkr isss dead . . . or hasss run completely mad!”
Blood of the Bear (Fire Born 5) is out on October 10, 2024, in paperback, eBook and audio versions. If you don’t know the series, you’d better start with The Last Berserker (Fire Born 1). Now just £1.99!