Stones of Power- Hellstone & Maelstrom

by Jenna Grey

  “I’ve never been a good sleeper – I have bad dreams sometimes. And let’s face it, at the moment there’s plenty to have bad dreams about. I want you to know that I trust you and I want you to trust me. I don’t want there to be any secrets between us.”

  Polly wanted so much to believe him, but she knew that he was holding back; there were hidden secrets beneath every word he uttered.

  “Before that thing came, you were going to tell me something – what was it?” she asked. The look on his face, the hesitancy, made her wish to God she’d never asked the question. It was too late to take it back now.

  “Oh, it was nothing, forget it.”

  Polly wanted to let it drop, but she couldn’t.

  “It sounded as if it was important,” she urged.

  Another hesitation and Polly felt the ripple of discomfort turn into a mini tidal wave.

  Finn drew in a deep breath and blew it out again, a look of resignation replacing the uncertainty.

  “Liam told me that he’d seen something when he did your Tarot reading – the Lovers card, and he said that we were going to get together, I mean permanently together. I didn’t want to tell you in case it influenced you, but then I thought that if it was meant to be then telling you wouldn’t make any difference. I suppose it doesn’t hurt for you to know now – I mean, we are together, aren’t we?”

  “I don’t think we could have got much more together,” Polly said, giggling and feeling so relieved.

  “But you do want us to be together, together?” he asked, his face so earnestly hopeful.

  Polly pressed her lips to his.

  “More than anything, but I’m a bit worried about how Liam’s going to react. When I spoke to him, he sounded so jealous. I don’t want to come between you.”

  Finn pulled her to him and held her tight.

  “That can never happen. It’s okay. I’ll have a word with him, see if I can make him understand. It will all be okay, I promise. Liam hasn’t lived as sheltered a life as I have. He’s had relationships with women – well, one night stands. He goes to nightclubs and to the gym, picks a woman up and dumps her the next day. He’s always been very successful with the opposite sex, something about him seems to draw women to him – you know, the dark, brooding, mysterious type. He’ll understand that I need this, that we need this.”

  “He’s a bit too intense for my taste, but he’s very good looking.”

  Finn exploded a laugh.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Better looking than me?”

  “Yes, much,” Polly replied. “Now, I want to sleep, even if you don’t, or I’ll be fit for nothing tomorrow – you go and read your book.”

  And with that, Polly pulled the covers over her head and was asleep in seconds.

  The next morning they were up and dressed by seven, although Polly was quite sure that Finn hadn’t got back into bed; perhaps he’d slept in the chair after all. He was already showering when she woke. He did look tired, but then so did she – she would swear the mirror winced when she looked into it. She only hoped that Bert didn’t expect too much of them – the thought of abseiling down cliffs and wading through mud at the moment was something she didn’t want to think about.

  “Did you sleep okay?” Finn asked, pulling her into a hug.

  “I did. I hope I didn’t snore.”

  Finn laughed and snatched a kiss.

  “Oh, like a warthog. No, not really – you did a great impersonation of a rock.”

  “Did you sleep at all?” she asked.

  “I did, I had more than enough; it was a seriously boring book. Dad’s arranged for us to visit the Jorvik Viking Centre this morning. He thought you’d enjoy it, and it would get us in the mood. You will enjoy it – it’s good fun.”

  Polly’s feet gave a little moan of protest at the thought of trudging around a dusty old museum looking at bits of ancient pottery and rusty spearheads. She forced out a gracious, ‘great’, and grimaced a smile behind his back as she followed Finn downstairs to enjoy one of Maisie’s terrifyingly bad-for-you breakfasts. Polly stared down at the bacon, eggs, fried tomatoes, baked beans and mushrooms on toast – a couple of thousand calories of top-grade saturated fat. They all had some of everything, working on the principle that they might not be able to get anything to eat for the rest of the day if they were out in the middle of nowhere looking for holes.

  Polly had never been to a museum of any kind before, not because she was disinterested, but because museums, if they were worth visiting, were always full of people. Lots of people equalled lots of misery, so museums had always been a no-go area for her.

  “Ah shit, I just thought – will you be okay with the crowds?” Finn asked.

  “If it’s not too noisy, I’ll be okay. Just don’t leave me on my own. God, I sound like a real wimp, don’t I?” She gave an embarrassed giggle.

  “Nope. I can’t leave you on your own anyway, remember – black smokey things – mad uncles?”

  As if Polly needed reminding.

  The Jorvik Viking Centre was exactly what Finn had said – fun; she loved every minute of it. Bram went off to do some organising and agreed to meet them later. Polly found herself warming to him – he was a solid, reassuring presence and brusquely kind. He had given them a good deal of information on Viking York and Polly was really beginning to get a feel for the period.

  Apparently, the Vikings had taken the city during the latter half of the 9th century and established a settlement here – the centre had recreated life as it would have been under their occupation. She was pretty sure it was nothing like the reality of it, but it did give her an idea of what it was like to be alive back then. There were life-sized mannequins in everyday settings, people just living their lives, complete with replicas of timber buildings they had found, replete with all of the things they used from day to day. They had even recreated the sounds and smells: a fish market, a pigsty, all so real that it made Polly feel she was back there. There was a small cable car which moved through the exhibits, saving her feet a bit of wear and tear. She could snuggle in next to Finn, without it seeming too obvious. Voice overs spoke in Old Norse, and the guttural language sounded strangely familiar to her; she thought she could almost understand some of what they were saying.

  “This is amazing,” Polly said. “I’m glad you brought me.”

  Finn pulled a face.

  “It’s a bit Disneyish; it wasn’t really like this. They were running alive with lice and vermin, rats, cockroaches, you name it – and there would have been raw sewage everywhere. It was pretty easy to die of something horrible.”

  “Thanks,” Polly said, wrinkling up her nose, “I’d rather have the Disney version if you don’t mind.”

  “It’s nothing like the York that Sigurd would have seen when he visited, but it’s fun,” Finn said. “It was Dad’s idea to try and make this a bit of a holiday for you, to help you forget that dick-head uncle of yours.”

  Polly beamed a smile at him. They were heading towards the gift shop now; Polly was rummaging in her bag to find her purse so that she could buy some postcards.

  “It’s working. I’m almost having a lovely time – if you discount the demons and mutilated corpses. That poor old man; what did he do to deserve that.”

  Finn gave her a chilling look.

  “I just wish I could have seen your uncle’s face when he got the blowback on that one.”

  Bert was already at the gift shop counter, loaded with paper bags with the Jorvik Viking Centre logo on. Polly was pretty confident there were at least a few items featuring sheep in there.

  “So, are we ready to set off on our adventure?” Bert asked, picking up some leaflets on York and crushing them into his pocket. “We know roughly where we’re heading, but I’m not going to pretend that this is going to be easy for me. Finding Sigurd’s burial site is going to take a great deal out of me. I might have to borrow some of your energy Finn; I hope that’s all right.”

  “Of course, take w
hat you want,” Finn said, distracted. He was looking at a display case of reproduction Viking jewellery.

  “You can borrow energy?” Polly asked. Bert was making it sound as if he were just borrowing a cup of sugar.

  “It’s very straightforward, exchanging energy is simple,” Bert explained. “You probably do it all the time without even knowing you’re doing it. There are two kinds of psychics – sponges and psychic batteries. People like you, me and Finn are batteries, we store and give out power. Psychic sponges are vampires, they leech power, energy, from the people around them. You must have known people like that.”

  Polly rolled her eyes.

  “My uncle and Winchard. I always feel drained whenever I’m anywhere near them, as if they’re sucking all the life out of me.”

  “Exactly,” Finn said. “Dad and I can share energy without it harming the other. A mutual exchange. Hang on here a minute, will you, I just want to get a few postcards.” Finn disappeared before Polly had a chance to reply.

  “So what’s next on our to-do list?” Polly asked.

  “Well, the first location I have for old Sigurd is York Minster,” Bert said. “There was a church there long before the present Cathedral, and over the years it’s gone through many changes. We know Sigurd was there, although we have no idea what he was doing there. Once we’re there, I can do my thing, hopefully, and get us started on our paper trail.”

  Finn came back then, looking like a cat that had just been given a year’s supply of Kittykrunch. He held something out to her – a paper gift bag. She took it, bemused, and peeked inside. There was a small box in it, and she pulled it out, giving Finn red-faced and worried looks as she opened it.

  “Oh, Finn – it’s beautiful.” It was a pendant, only base metal, but lovely, with a tree of some kind and runes etched on it.

  Finn, his face as red as a clown’s nose, said:

  “That’s Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life. According to Norse mythology, the world will end with Ragnarok, when there will be a great battle between the gods. Just one man and woman will survive by hiding inside the hollow of a tree. Then, like Adam and Eve, they’ll come out and bring life back to the world. A lot of people think that the tree is Yggdrasil.”

  Polly fought back tears, but they won, and she knuckled them away, then she slipped her arms around his neck, kissing Finn tenderly on the mouth.

  “Thank you,” was all she could manage to get out, through her tight throat.

  Bert gave a little chuckle.

  “Well, now then. If you two love birds have finished, we need to get back to the guest house. Bram is probably getting edgy, thinking that we’ve been carted off by demons or something. We need to get to York Minster.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  It was late afternoon by the time they arrived at the Minster, but they didn’t need to spend much time here, just enough time for Bert to see if he could pick up a trail for them to follow. It had been a bit of a walk from the B & B, and Polly’s feet were aching. The activities of the previous night hadn’t helped much either.

  The late afternoon sun was still pleasantly warm, and they found a bench to sit on that gave them a good view of the Cathedral. Bram had turned up wearing an authentic Scottish kilt; not the modern knee-length variety, but a great swathe of tartan that made him look like an extra from Highlander. Polly had to smile.

  “Is it true what they say about Scots and their kilts?” Polly asked. Bram gave her a broad grin.

  “Why don’t you take a look, lassie, and see for yourself?” Polly giggled.

  “I’ll pass thanks; I’m not that desperate to find out.” “Very wise, my dear. I know what’s under it and you are better off letting sleeping dogs lie,” Bert said with a chuckle, moving along the bench a little to make room for Finn. “Anyway, here we are, and we just have to hope that we can find a clue here to take us the next step of the way.” Polly looked across at the vast building, wondering what on earth it could tell them that would be of any possible use to them. This wasn’t Sigurd’s world; it was as far removed from the world he knew as this great cathedral was from theirs.

  The present York Minster was an impressive edifice, and quite beautiful, but Polly had never really liked the vast majesty of Christian cathedrals and churches. There was something so loveless about them – majestic, but so cold and austere.

  “We don’t know much about this place before the 10th century,” Bram said. “The period we’re interested in is shrouded in mystery. We do know there was a kirk here, a real kirk made of stone and well used to all accounts in Sigurd’s time. By the 8th century, there was a school and library here, and it was one of the largest in Northern Europe, a centre of excellence for Christianity at the time, but it was looted and desecrated when Ivar the Boneless attacked with the Great Heathen Army in the second half of the 9th century. There was a massive slaughter; the clergy and nuns were brutally murdered. We’re not quite sure of what happened exactly, as the records of that time aren’t prolific, but it was a terrible time for York. My best guess is that Sigurd wanted to find out something, or locate something, here in York – perhaps see someone who had information he needed. There has to be a good chance it was the Hellstone.” Bert shrugged a tentative agreement.

  “It’s the only explanation I can think of for why he would be here. Sigurd was a raider, moving up and down the coast with his men, attacking small settlements and more wedded to his boats than some of his fellow Vikings. According to evidence that Bram here’s uncovered, he had many fallings out with the other Viking warlords. Sigurd wasn’t very well liked by the sound of it. He must have had a good reason for coming here on his own like that into a rival’s territory – especially if he were treading on Ivar the Boneless’ toes. From what I’ve found out, Ivar wasn’t exactly the sanest of men. It would have been a risky business for Sigurd – it must have been something significant that brought him here.”

  “It has to be the Hellstone,” Polly said.

  “Well, that wouldn’t be a ridiculous guess,” Bert replied. “Let’s hope that Sigurd’s dagger will give us a few answers.”

  Bram pulled out a package from under his combat jacket, flapping open the oilskin it was wrapped in to reveal the bronze and bone dagger hilt. It was beautiful, in a savage kind of way: the handle was carved bone with black and gold decoration surrounding it. Etched in the bone were runes.

  “What do the runes say?” Polly asked. She presumed they were Sigurd Thorgeirsson’s name.

  “Sigurd, son of the Mighty Thunder God, Thor,” Bramwell said.

  “How do you know it’s our Sigurd?” Finn asked.

  “It had a parchment with it, a tiny scrap with his full name on it. I think it is most certainly his.” Bram pulled out his iPad and opened up the photo gallery to show the said scrap of parchment, which was tiny – Polly could just about make out the writing on it. He flipped through the next photo, and this was a larger document.

  “This is a document written by a monk, Brother Abelard, some years after Sigurd’s death. It mentions the Hellstone, which is probably how Winchard found out about it in the first place. It reads: ‘Amongst the most heinous and demonic of artefacts is the Helestan, a stone which is said to call forth demons and wraiths from the very depths of Hell, to walk the earth and wreak the most awful of mischiefs amongst the righteous.” He moved on to the next image. “This document is a history of York during that period, and it mentions Sigurd coming here to York Minster on ‘a most pressing matter’. He barely avoided being captured and put to death by Ivar the Boneless’ men.”

  “Where did you find his dagger?” Finn asked.

  Bram gave a sigh.

  “I didn’t exactly find it. I picked this up from... well, someone who got it from someone else... down through a long line of dealers. There was no way to trace the provenance back. Cost me an arm and a leg.”

  Polly had the overwhelming urge to pick it up and caress it. There was something about it that drew her too it, like a child
wanting to touch a flame.

  “Well, let’s see what this little treasure has to tell us,” Bert said, picking up the dagger hilt, holding it loosely in cupped hands. He closed his eyes, his head lowered. It was some minutes before he spoke. “Ah, I can sense him, but it’s quite vague, just an impression of a large man, a powerful man. I’m afraid the images are elusive. It was a long way back, and lots of hands have touched it since. I can tell you, though, that he’s travelling north. Yes, he and his men were definitely travelling north. Give me the map.” He lay the dagger in his lap and stretched out his hand for Bram to hand him the rather-too-large map of the area, which he spread out over his knees. “Here, he camped there at Huntingdon. That’s our next port of call.”

  He folded up the map and handed it back; Polly stared down at the dagger hilt, just nestled there on Bert’s lap.

  “Do you mind if I hold it?” she asked. She stretched out her hand, hesitantly.

  Bert gave a puzzled frown and handed it to her.

  “If you can pick up anything else, I’d be glad to hear it,” he said. Finn looked a little concerned, his forehead furrowing in seashore waves, but he let her take it.

  The instant her fingers touched it, Polly felt the world kaleidoscope around her, shifting into patterns of shapes and colours with no real form. The great cathedral dissolved, the stone pouring downwards like thick cream onto the grey earth, the whole world tipping over onto its side. Her eyes were drawn upwards to the darkening sky, now a dull thundercloud grey. Polly tried to drag in air to stop herself vomiting, clinging onto Finn’s arm to keep from falling into darkness.

  After a few moments, she could focus again, but the world looked as if someone had double exposed a camera shot, two layers of reality overlaying one another. The cathedral was still there, but it was a ghost, as if she could put her hand right through it. She knew she was still sitting on the bench, with Finn beside her, but there was another world alongside this one. The great Cathedral of York was gone and in its place was a stone church, still large, but fallen into disrepair and left to decay; horses and carts trundled in and out, the once holy building a filthy stable. People moved around in front of her in a confusion of movement – people dressed in rough hessian clothing, skins and furs. The women’s hair was long and braided, or loose in tousled strands, blond women, tough and life-hardened, used to barely surviving. The men once made ruthless by battle had settled here now, living mundane lives of hard work and drudgery.