PROLOGUE: THE RITUAL

Had the child been older he might have understood what was happening. He might have understood the sounds of the violent struggle in the adjacent room as his parents were ripped out of their beds, beaten, bound, and gagged.

He did not feel fear until the unfamiliar faces appeared around his cot. Not because of any true understanding of the threat the home invaders posed, but because like all infants he was frightened by people he did not know. These were not the faces of his mother, his father, or even the friendly neighbours, all of whom had imprinted on his still limited capacity to remember.

All he could do was cry for the familiar faces to return as the unfamiliar ones hovered above him from all sides, bathed in the pale, dim light of the full moon shining through the window, shattering the comforting safety of his bedroom.

They smiled down at him. They made no quick or threatening moves. But to an infant all that is unknown is a great terror. Perhaps they are wise in that regard.

The invaders were all young adults. Almost all had long hair. Many were bearded. Some had dark skin, a feature the rural Scandinavian infant had never witnessed before. They were all dressed in a manner that was in stark contrast to the conservative and drab styles of the village folk he was familiar with—wild and colourful.

The room became illuminated with a faint golden hue as a man entered carrying a lighted candle. He moved at a slow and deliberate pace around the smiling congregation, and only his silhouette cast by the candle onto the walls was visible from within the cot until he finally stepped into an opening and took his place within the circle.

He was a handsome young man. His golden curls glinted in the flickering candlelight. He too smiled down at the frightened child in the small infant bed. Then he spoke, briefly, and all the other strangers produced unlit candles. He handed his lit one to the young woman standing next to him and she used it to light her own candle before handing it to the man beside her. They all did so in turn, until every stranger except for the man with the curls carried a lighted candle.

The man with the curls reached into a satchel and pulled out a small, plain-looking wooden box, opened it and presented the contents within.

Had the child been older he would have been petrified by the sight of what happened next. Perhaps his ignorance was a blessing, for had his head been filled with the beliefs and delusions of thinking adults his mind might have been destroyed attempting to rationalise the oozing darkness that poured out of the box and stretched out over him like a cold blanket of emptiness.

Had he been older his mind would have reeled at the impossibility of what was transpiring. Thankfully, he was merely frightened by the sudden darkness.

Then his mind awoke from an immemorial slumber.

THE EXCAVATION

Archaeological Dig Site, SULDAL municipality, northeast corner of Rogaland county

Monday, 3 March. 10.04am.

Kari Ellingsen, twenty-two, archaeology student at the University of Oslo, was scraping away at some damp soil with a small trowel within the cramped space of trench #2—rain drumming on the taut fabric of the make-shift tarpaulin tent above her head—when she hit something hard. Her immediate reaction was to dismiss it as frost—accompanied by a low grumble at the situation that had forced them to excavate in March—but as she continued to scrape away, she quickly realised that she had hit a metal object. She mentally disciplined herself from getting too excited, not wanting to rush the job and damage whatever it was she had found. 

Less than a minute later she could make out the rough shape of the object, it was indeed metal, and with very little rust on it. She put the pointy tip of her trowel underneath the section with the largest surface area and twisted it ever so slightly, hoping to gently dislodge the object from the soil. It came loose quite easily, though it pulled a fair amount of dirt with it. She gently scraped off the dirt with her already dirty fingernails. What she was left with was a small piece of lightly rusted iron with two flat prongs tapering off into rounded off points that had once been sharp.

It was a pair of shears, too small for use on sheep, she decided, so it had to have been made for cutting thread, possibly cloth. It was a really exciting find, but then she remembered where she had found it, and her brows furrowed at the thought.

She stood up carefully, making sure she didn’t step on the fragile wood frame she’d uncovered earlier that morning. She looked about the excavation site, a partially stripped field with a view of a lake and some darkly picturesque mountains. Had it not been for the heavy rain and the dozen trenches shielded by gaudy multi-coloured tents scattered about the muddy remains of a once green field, the view could have been worthy of a postcard. 

There were hardly anyone moving about—most had been driven away by the sudden downpour and sought refuge down at the farmhouse, though a handful of students were still diligently at work within their own narrow trenches under the protection of tarpaulin that was, for the time being, holding against the unpredictable west-coast winds. But there was one member of the excavation Kari was looking for specifically—Professor Poulsen, the head of the dig. She scanned the site a little longer, hoping he’d emerge from one of the nearby tents so that she could call him over.

Kari quickly decided that it didn’t really matter where Poulsen was. She knew what she’d found, the question was why it was where she had found it. She dwelled no further on the present whereabouts of Poulsen—he had most likely gone down to the farmhouse too—and figured she might as well take her find to Professor Korrigan instead. He was, after all, responsible for identifying and cataloguing all the finds, so she could deliver it to him and ask him about it while she was there. It was also a good excuse to stretch her legs.

She stepped out of the trench, ducked under the low tarpaulin and started jogging through the rain towards the large dark-green tent at the other end of the site.

The site had once been an Iron Age farm. Charred timber and signs of physical trauma on the lone skeleton that had been discovered early on in the preliminary excavation before the winter frost halted most of the work seemed to suggest that the farm had been attacked, looted and burned down some time towards the latter half of the 6th century—perhaps an early example of the violent lifestyle her Viking ancestors would become so infamous for in the following centuries.

The ruins had been well known to the locals; the outlines of the main wall having remained visible on the ground. When the land was bought by Hydrokraft in 1971 with the intent of constructing a modern hydroelectric power plant for aluminium production at Karmøy, a field-worker had been sent to survey the site and for the first time a formal report was sent regarding the buried ruins. Motivated by a similar find in the city of Stavanger, archaeological interest was expressed by the University of Oslo and a request for a halt in construction was submitted—much to the annoyance of the power company. Due to the relatively inaccessible location of the site—something that would ironically be changed after the hydro plant had been built—and due to the lack of academic interest expressed by the rural locals, it was decided that the site would be excavated until the end of the summer, then the land would be paved over and construction work begun. It was frustrating, it was unfair, but it was a situation they were forced to accept.

 Underfunded and undermanned, Professor Poulsen had invited a former teacher from his days at the University in Oxford—the distinguished, and also somewhat infamous, Professor Mortimer Korrigan—to help speed up the process. His infamy stemmed from his tendency to dabble in the paranormal, and although a prolific excavator in his own right, his successes were often overshadowed by his failures—failures that often garnered much publicity due to the eccentric claims that had often preceded them. But crackpot or not, his knowledge of Norse artefacts could not be denied by anyone.

Having zigzagged past all the excavation trenches, Kari finally reached the finds tent and stepped in. Water dripped down from her oilskin jacket. She’d stopped caring about how her hair looked weeks ago.

To her left, seated by a small table covered in newspapers and multicoloured plastic carrying trays was Arne Nygaard, another student, who was gently scrubbing an unassuming potsherd with a shabby-looking toothbrush. His plaid shirt and bell-bottom jeans were covered in splotches of dirt, though he looked clean compared to Kari.

Arne gave a casual nod of acknowledgment as she stepped past him.

Opposite of the entrance, seated with his back to her in front of a much larger table covered in variously shaped lumps of rusty iron that only the well-trained eye of an archaeologist could distinguish as anything of potential value, was Professor Mortimer Korrigan. He was every bit the traditional Englishman she’d expected when she first heard he was coming to assist the excavation. He was wearing a well-worn tweed jacket, and although not visible from her current position, she knew he was wearing a bow tie. He always wore it wherever he went, whatever he was doing, and would scarcely be caught anywhere in public without it. Despite his age—Kari estimated he was about seventy—he had a rich head of wavy grizzled hair that had been slicked back in a style that was very common for men of his generation, though it was a little longer than one might have expected. A few tufts of hair always seemed to have come loose, usually above his ears. But his most prominent feature was his large and somewhat bushy imperial moustache, which gave him something of an old-fashioned military look, though there was absolutely nothing soldier-like about his personality.

Leaning against a cheap ashtray on his left-hand side was an old pipe that she thought looked like something out of an old Sherlock Holmes movie. It was in stark contrast to the small pile of normal cigarette butts lying within the tray—Arne’s undoubtedly. Behind it was a weathered roll-up tobacco pouch made of leather with a couple of beads and a smooth turquoise stone attached to the end of the bundling strap.

“Ah!” exclaimed the professor as he placed a magnifying glass down on the table. He pushed away the crane-neck lamp clamped to the right-hand edge of the table as he half-turned in his chair to acknowledge Kari as she stepped up next to him. “What have you got for me this time?” His voice, despite being husky with age, was strong and carried far. It was the clear voice of an experienced teacher.

“A pair of shears from trench two,” Kari replied. “It’s completely intact.”

“Really? Let me see.”

She handed the fragile two-pronged piece of metal to Korrigan, who received it carefully with both hands and held it up close to his face for inspection. He rotated himself in the chair a few degrees and pulled the lamp closer again with his right hand, then returned to his previous position. 

“Yes, very nice,” he said after a few seconds.

“I can’t tell for sure yet,” Kari said, “but I believe they were wrapped in leather.”

“That would certainly account for the good condition.”

“But there’s one thing that’s bothering me, professor.”

Korrigan looked up at Kari. “Yes?”

“It’s where I found them that’s so strange. It doesn’t make much sense to me.”

“And where did you find them?”

“Within the bed.”

“The bed? Are you sure?”

“Yes, I found them within the timber frame I discovered this morning. Professor Poulsen took a look at it then, and he was positive it’s a bedframe. It’s nearly identical to ones found in Stavanger.”

Korrigan gave a low hmm and his eyes lowered to the object in his hands again. 

“They could have fallen underneath the bed before, or during, the attack on the farm, perhaps?” he said in a familiar tone which wasn’t so much a rebuttal as it was encouragement for her to continue her deductions. He was a teacher as much as he was a field archaeologist.

“That’s what I thought at first,” said Kari, “but they were too far up in the soil to have been below the bed, and I’ve discovered fragments of what I believe to be the wooden base underneath it.”

“Which means?”

“Well, it means they must have been lying in the bed, rather than under it. But why keep a pair of shears in the bed?”

Arne decided to chime in on the conversation and turned halfway around in his chair to face them. He had a slightly tongue-in-cheek expression on his face. “A disgruntled wife keeping her husband on his side of the bed, perhaps?”

Korrigan chuckled. “Well, that is not entirely outside the realm of possibility, especially when you take into consideration the infamous pride and strong will of the Nordic woman.” 

He gave Kari a little wink and she couldn’t help but smile at his dry British charm.

Korrigan’s attention returned to the shears again. “However, I think it more likely that this was done in an attempt to ward off trolls.”

“Trolls?” Kari said.

“Oh yes—” he looked up and was surprised to see that Kari was giving him a puzzled look. He turned his head and saw that Arne seemed equally expectant of an explanation to his statement.

“Good lord. Surely, they still tell you fairy tales about trolls in this country.”

“Of course,” Kari said, “but what does a pair of shears in a bed have to do with trolls?”

Never a man to shirk away from giving impromptu lectures on any subject that interested him, Korrigan quickly forgot about his mild shock at having to explain to them their own folkloric history and proceeded to explain;

“Well, you see, all across Europe, though especially in Norse-Gaelic folk religion, it was generally believed that beings from the subterranean realms would sometimes steal new-born children and replace them with one of their own; a so-called changeling. Now, since most faery-beings—or rather Huldrefolk in these parts—were believed to be afraid of iron, parents would often place an iron tool such as a knife or…” he held up the rusty artefact, “…a pair of shears wrapped in a piece of sheepskin or cloth beside the infant lying in the bed with its mother, as have been common throughout most of human history.”

Arne’s brows furrowed. “But isn’t that a superstition from Christian times meant to protect unbaptised children?”

“Not quite. With the introduction of Christianity, the peasantry often incorporated many of the old pagan traditions with the new faith. This they rationalised by simply adding the devil as the originator of all supernatural misfortunes. So, whenever some kind of deformity or unknown illness occurred in a newborn, they simply acted on what, to them, was the logical assumption that the subterranean dwellers of old were in league with the devil and had replaced their child with a demonic changeling. The use of iron as a means of warding off the forces of darkness has no basis in biblical doctrine, making it a likely holdover from a much older tradition; the origins of which we can only guess at.”

“And what does any of this have to do with trolls?”

“Ah, well, troll is simply another word for the subterranean vættr, of which the changelings belonged, a far cry from the lumbering giants of more recent fairytales. As is the case with most creatures of myth and folklore, both their names and appearance vary greatly over time as new beliefs dilute, distort, and in many cases, fully transform them into something very different.”

Korrigan looked up at Kari again.

“Either way, I am positive that what you have discovered, Miss Ellingsen, is the result of ancient superstition. And, even more importantly, a very fine piece that will undoubtedly get a nice spot in a museum.”

Kari was quite pleased, and Korrigan was about to hand the shears back to her when a tall, dark-haired man in a soaked dark trench coat carrying a small black leather briefcase stepped into the tent.

“Professor Korrigan?” the man said with an American accent slightly tinged by a southern drawl.

Korrigan stood up to greet the unexpected guest, and, without realising it, instinctively slipped the shears into the right-hand pocket of his jacket.

 “Yes, what can I help you with?”

The American pulled out of his pocket what appeared to be his wallet, then flipped it open, revealing a golden metal badge and an I.D. card.

“Special Agent John Marshall, FBI.”

“FBI?” Korrigan said incredulously. “You’re somewhat outside your jurisdiction, aren’t you?”

“Under normal circumstances, yes.” The American scrutinised the two curious students with a narrow-eyed look that clearly showed that their presence was unwanted. His whole demeanour was almost theatrically clandestine. His attention returned to Korrigan. “Could we talk in private, professor?”

Korrigan hesitated. It was still pouring outside.

“It’s OK, professor,” said Kari. “I was headed back to my trench anyway.”

“Right,” said Arne, “and I’ll, uh, go and have my lunch at the farmhouse I guess.”

Agent Marshall watched the two students as they hurriedly stepped out into the downpour and headed off in opposite directions. He took a few steps back to the entrance and zipped down the aperture. He shrugged off his wet coat and threw it onto the table beside the cleaned artefacts while he pulled out Arne’s now abandoned chair and made himself comfortable.

“Now,” Korrigan said while he seated himself again. “Do you mind telling me what this is all about?”

Marshall pulled a packet of Marlboros out of the breast pocket of his suit jacket and popped out a cigarette.

“You got a light?” he asked casually.

Korrigan picked up the box of matches lying beside his pipe and threw it over to the American who snatched it out of the air and promptly lit his cigarette.

 “Much obliged.” He dropped the burnt match into the bucket filled with soapy water next to Arne’s desk. It hissed slightly as it broke through the frothy surface.

Korrigan considered the American carefully. He was young, probably no older than thirty. He had a handsome face with the chiselled jaw of a Hollywood actor, though his tough, olive-toned skin was more likely the result of an upbringing on a farm or a ranch somewhere in the Great Basin or the Chihuahuan desert. His accent supported the latter. Partially hidden underneath the bland grey business suit so common with federal agents was the physique of a former athlete—he had probably been accepted into a good college through his athletic achievements. His dark sideburns were just a tad longer than would have been acceptable for a man in his line of work just a few years earlier. There was something strangely paradoxical about him, an odd merging of formal authority and the casual laid-back nature that was so common with the current youth.

Marshall took a deep drag from his cigarette while he eyed Korrigan with equal scrutiny, considering similar contradictions in the sixty-three-year-old Englishman. He looked much older than he actually was—his lined, thin face, devoid of the softness so common with academics, was a testament to a long and eventful career spent outdoors rather than in musty university libraries. Marshall examined the intently alert, deep-set, grey-blue eyes shielded by a prominent brow bone, the pronounced aquiline nose, the thin mouth. He noted that the sunken cheeks gave the professor a somewhat haggard appearance that created an illusion of fragility. This was partially offset by the strong jawline below. But more telling was the traditional, almost clichéd scholarly attire that seemed contradictory for a man he knew had spent much of his career being at odds with his academic peers. Equally paradoxical was the antiquated handlebar moustache—as much a symbol of the fading British Empire as the pith helmet. It was all in stark contrast to the progressive-minded—often controversially so—professor, who had once been accused by one of his former colleagues of having ‘Hippie-sympathies.’ But Marshall knew from his dossier on Korrigan that this was a gross exaggeration. He was very much the traditional Englishman, albeit his own unique interpretation of what that entailed.

He was just the right man for the job, a man with one foot in the past and another in the present. He wondered which one had the firmest footing.

“Well?” Korrigan said, his tone just terse enough to signal his impatience without being rude.

“Sorry, I’m afraid the Norwegian climate doesn’t quite sit right with me.” He tapped his cigarette, letting the ashes fall into the bucket. “The coldest weather we get in Texas is probably warmer than what these poor bastards get in the height of summer.”

Korrigan crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair a little.

“To the point, however,” Marshall added with a brief smile that most would have mistaken for sudden self-consciousness, “who am I and why am I here? Well, I’m a legal attaché invited by Kripos[1] at the behest of the US government to safeguard the interests of the Petrocon Atlantic corporation. I’m an expert on ecoterrorism currently working on a classified case that hasn’t made it into the papers yet. Well, not entirely anyways. It is of the utmost importance to international security—not to mention the interests of the Petrocon corporation—and I was informed by Interpol that you were not only an expert on occult symbolism and pagan cults, but that you were also a trustworthy individual that has helped out both the military and law enforcement in similar cases before.” He took another drag from his cigarette then scratched his chin with his pinkie finger. “Though they were somewhat vague on that latter part. They mostly just gave me a lot of place names and dates and insisted you’d been of great help to international security. They did, for example, say a little about an incident in the Orkneys eight years ago, something about a secret society you helped put a stop to. Care to elaborate on that?”

“Not really.”

Marshall smiled. “No, I didn’t think so. Besides, it’s hardly any of my business, I’m only here to do what, until recently, seemed a fairly straightforward job.”

“And what exactly is that Mr. Marshall?”

Marshall took another deep drag from his cigarette and exhaled a small puff of smoke.

“Are you aware of the kidnapping that happened in Aksdal five days ago?”

“Yes, I read about it in the papers. Horrible business. Crimes like that are such a rare thing in this country.”

“Yes, they are,” Marshall mumbled, then added in a much clearer tone—he’d been surprised by that last statement; “You can read the local papers?”

“Mr. Marshall,” Korrigan said, allowing a tinge of indignation to enter his tone. “I am an expert on Nordic history and Nordic languages. I can read Norse, Proto-Norse and Elder Futhark, not to mention several other ancient Germanic languages. As such, modern Norwegian does not present me with much of a challenge.”

“Well, how ‘bout that,” Marshall said with a cowboyish smile that could have rivalled the greatest Hollywood heartthrob. His expression quickly turned serious again. “And I take it that symbols fall into the same category then?”

“All symbols are a form of language,” Korrigan said.

“Then maybe you can help shed some light on a detail that hasn’t been made available to the public yet.”

Marshall dropped his cigarette into the water bucket, and it went out with another small hiss. He pulled his briefcase up to his lap, popped it open and briefly rummaged through the papers inside before producing a small photo.

“The local police found this in the crib of the kidnapped child.”

He handed the photo to Korrigan. It showed a small piece of paper with a crude drawing of a geometric symbol consisting of six interlocking circles that came together in the centre of a seventh circle of the same diameter. The pattern within the inner circle made from the interlocking outer circles resembled a flower with six pointy petals.