Free Day of the Vikings. A Thriller. (ARKANE) by J.F. Penn

the sky. Toward the west, dark clouds were gathering and the wind was picking up. Fat drops of rain began to splatter down and a chill pierced the air. Morgan thought of the vortex the Valkyrie had commanded back at the museum, and looked up towards the Benedictine abbey. The light was dim now, but she could just make out figures in front of the twelfth-century stone building.
    Morgan pulled her hood up and tugged the thick coat closer around her as she walked quickly up the main street toward the abbey. It was known as the Reilig Odhráin , Road of the Dead, where the funeral procession would walk with the body of Christian dead to be buried in the abbey grounds. Early Kings of Scotland were buried here, including Mac Bethad mac Findlaích , known to history as Macbeth.  
    The darkness grew thicker now as clouds billowed above in shades of violet, shot through with flickering lightning. The few people remaining outside in the streets ran for cover, closing windows and preparing for the storm. They were used to the vagaries of the weather on this peninsula by the Atlantic, with nothing to shield them from the elements. Now, Morgan was counting on it to disguise her approach to the abbey as she crept to the edge of the great medieval building.  
    As she drew closer, Morgan saw the Valkyrie standing in the rain, a fur wrap covering her gray tunic, her hair plastered to her head as the drops ran unheeded down her face. There was steel in the old woman’s posture, a hardness in her features and a new knowledge that darkened her eyes. She held the staff of Skara Brae in front of her, gnarled fingers clutching it tightly.  
    Three of the Neo-Vikings were digging under the base of the eighth-century St Martin’s Cross. The ring behind the medieval cross symbolized eternity and the presence of a halo, and the stone was carved with scenes from the Bible. Even from a short distance away, Morgan recognized Daniel in the lion’s den, Abraham with sword raised to sacrifice Isaac, and writhing serpents around circular bosses. One of the men pushed against the heavy stone, rocking his body back and forth to try to move it.  
    “No,” a voice cried. A man ran out from the cover of the abbey doorway, clearly one of the clergy. “That cross has stood by the grace of God for over 1200 years on that spot. You can’t just knock it down.”
    He grabbed the arm of the Neo-Viking, who laughed, a deep rumbling sound, and reached around the back of the man’s head, yanking it forward to smash against the stone. The clergyman groaned in pain and slumped a little, but the Neo-Viking pulled him forward again, driving his skull onto the arm of the cross, blood now oozing from the wound, staining the ancient stone.
    “Enough,” the Valkyrie said, her Scottish lilt a direct order. “Finish digging. The Eye is under there, I’ve seen it in my visions. It calls to the staff now. Dig harder.”
    The Neo-Viking threw the clergyman to the ground, where he lay clutching his head as the rain slammed down upon his prone body. Morgan willed him to stay still and just wait. Even with a weapon, she couldn’t stop all of them, and with people in the abbey, she didn’t want to risk making a move. She pulled back around the edge of the building and texted Marietti at ARKANE, informing him that the group was there, though she knew that backup wouldn’t get here in time to stop the Neo-Vikings recovering the Eye of Odin. If she was honest, part of Morgan wanted to see what happened when the Eye was recovered. She was drawn to the edge of darkness, for the glimpses she had seen into the realm of miracle had given her a taste of something beyond the mundane world.
    A loud rumble of thunder echoed across the bay, followed quickly by a crack of lightning. The storm was almost upon them. Morgan peered around again to see the Neo-Vikings pushing the stone cross to the ground, its granite pedestal split open. The Valkyrie knelt before it, her hands thrust into