The time to heal took place on a tiny island in the Irish Sea called the Isle of the Dead.

Both the Scots and the Norse, still debating ownership of many of the islands scattered south of the Hebrides-and often deciding the matter by arms- kept clear of the little island.

Unless, of course, they had business with the inhabitants there.

It was not so difficult in those days for the common people to accept the 'different.'

Many worshiped in church by day, and left offerings to Mother Earth by night, baked bread for the "little people," and accepted that there was surely a G.o.d, one G.o.d, but creatures as well, not thoroughly known by man. There were enough of those "different" who were known in life; the midget, the giant, the blind man who could create incredible work in gold, the hermit in the Highlands who had lived well past a century. There were berserkers who could bring down twenty men who were double their own size, and holy men who could touch a man, and cure his ills and woes.

The folk on the Isle of the Dead were different, to be avoided . . . unless they were needed.

Sometimes, it was the spurned who came there- dwarfs who had lost favor with the n.o.blemen they had entertained, wiccans, cursed in their homelands for supposedly bringing about famine, disease, or death. There were others there as well-those considered to be touched by the full moon, who ran in the darkness, who howled in the night. Each country claimed that some creature of their legend and lore existed upon the Isle of the Dead, from the Irish selkies, banshees, and wee people to the pixies of the Scots, the fallen G.o.ds and mischief-makers of the Norse, and even the lamia of the Middle East. Shape-shifters, ghosts, and demons, all were said to live on the Isle of the Dead.

Among them as well were the simple farmers and tradesmen, those who did not fear their neighbors, for in their service they were safe from the savage attacks that came with the fierce struggles between Danes and Norse and the tribes ruling their various sectors of the British Isles.

Life, and death, were easy in those days, for wars and feuds were constant, and bloodshed was a way of existence. Men of all ilk chose their sides, and barbarism was the rule of war.

When there were no battles, there were herds of s.h.a.ggy cows and sheep to tend, their populations always kept at a maximum by the natural inhabitants of the isle.

There were years in which Ragnor healed, and years in which he learned, for one of the greatest oddities of this d.a.m.ned habitat was the number of holy men who came seeking help in quests for vengeance as well as for peace. Ragnor discovered early on that Lucian had his own demons to destroy, and that he intended to keep a sharp control on the world in which they existed. In his first years among the d.a.m.ned, he was often attended by a strange and beautiful young woman who continually appeared and disappeared, a cursed creature, but unlike themselves, d.a.m.ned to a life in which she must continually return to the sea.

She was Lucian's wife, from what had become a distant time and world to them. She never explained herself, or asked for explanations in return.

In time even the scars from the mult.i.tude of sword slashes that had covered his body disappeared, and it was soon after that complete healing that Ragnor awoke with the dusk to a strange feeling of unrest. Rising, he realized that he had dreamed of Nari, coming to him, whispering that she was afraid, that she needed him. She had cried, tears of shame and horror and fear. She had begged his forgiveness.

He rose and came to the wooden structure much like a longhouse where Lucian slept and entertained their guests. There, he found that an exhausted warrior, the remnants of a steel chain about his neck, had come to the isle, telling a tale about a terrible battle that had taken place in the south of England.

"The Normans arrived upon the coast of England. Our Saxon king was ready to meet them, and England should not have fallen, but in the terrible clash that took place, King Harold was killed. The Norman lord makes his way north. Comets ride the sky, and the people think that the world is coming to an end," the man told them. He was dirty and unkempt, his hair long in the Saxon manner, a scraggly beard covering his face.

"If the Saxon king has been killed, and a Norman will take the throne of England, bringing with him his own n.o.bility, the world as they know it will come to an end," Ragnor said.

The man turned to him, startled. He then lowered his head. "Aye, the world as we have known it is indeed over, and the freedoms we have known are gone with it. But that is not why I have come." He looked back at Lucian. "As the Norman army moves north, there is death and destruction."

"That is the way of it, when one people conquer another," Lucian said. He lifted a hand.

"We were not a part of this war, and were not asked to be."

"It isn't war that brings me here, though the death and devastation are pitiable and tragic.

Wars are fought and won and lost. And in this battle, there were those who believed that Harold himself thought that G.o.d stood against him, and so a new reign will come to England. But much of the Norman horde was made up of mercenary troops. And it is doubtful that even the great Norman lord knew from where they all came. He came to seize the throne; men such as he seldom count the cost."

"Why are you here, if you see that this battle has been fought-and lost?" Lucian demanded.

"I don't fear death," the man said. "My name is Edgar, and I was a thane of the low country, taken, as you see-" he paused, indicating the steel collar around his throat, "-in battle, to become a serf, a slave to their feudal system. I escaped my captors when they ceased to guard us so vigilantly. Death itself is nothing. Not when a man's soul falls to G.o.d's hands. But in the wake of the Norman army ... there came a terrible sickness. So many of the invaders were left behind to hold the countryside, to subdue the people in the towns and villages surrounding the battle. And then .. . peasants, farmers, artists, warriors, the injured, and the innocent, all began to fall prey to this illness ... it is like a plague. A plague of demons!" Edgar continued, red-rimmed eyes wild. He was worn, exhausted, and probably starving, but he spoke with conviction and a dignity that belied his shabby appearance. He had a straight posture, dark hair and eyes, and the courage to speak his mind. "G.o.d knows if any of the poor souls will be left alive in the south when I return. I told you, I managed my escape because the Norman invaders are afraid themselves; they stay behind walls in confinement, fearing only for themselves. It is a strange evil, seizing victims voraciously. Evil, in a sweep of shadows. They come by the day's end; the victims don't even sicken, they fall dead by morning. And there are hauntings where they return to their loved ones, and by morning, the sister, the brother, the mother has fallen dead as well, and the sickness goes on and on."

"Perhaps it is black death," Lucian said, watching the man. "A man touches his wife, and her illness is his. A mother tends to her dying child, and loses her life as well."

Edgar shook his head. "Not that kind of a plague- unless the plague can take on human form, and laugh as the priests pray over the dead and dying."

"There is no plague, Lucian; we both know it," Ragnor said, striding up to the man. "The evil you speak of takes human form, you say. And you have seen this. Shadows, forming into solid shapes. Men- or women?"

"A woman came upon me as I helped a priest tend to a dying man before St. Mary's, near the battlefield at Hastings. She stood beside me, draped in black, as if she were a mourner. But then she laughed, and told me that the Normans had opened the door to the d.a.m.ned. And-"

The man suddenly broke off.

"And?" Ragnor said.

"The man whom I prayed over, dying even as I spoke the words, walked the next day.

Walked with her when the dusk was falling, and stepped among the others on the field before the church . .. dying as well."

"Why do you come to us?" Lucian asked.

"Because it is rumored that you are shape-shifters as well," Edgar replied after a moment.

"And you're not afraid of us?" Ragnor inquired.

"Yes, I am."

"But you come anyway?" Lucian queried. "When your country lies in devastation?"

"Wars are won, and wars are lost, but the souls of men are eternal. Aye, I'm afraid. I was afraid on the battlefield. But not as I am now. They say that others have come here.

That you can be as brutal as any conquering army ... but when you are done, there is the order of life and death, and even the fallen can pray for salvation."

"That's quite a reputation," Lucian murmured.

"We'll come with you, south to England," Ragnor said.

"I am safe among you." Edgar said the words strongly, and yet, Ragnor thought, they were a question.

"Oh, aye," Lucian said gravely.

Wulfgar, who had been silent, laughed softly. "We drink the blood of the conquered and the holy on holidays sacred only to our kind." The man paled, but didn't falter. "Would there be a church on this island?"

"Aye, that there is," Wulfgar told him.

The man started out. Then, in front of Ragnor, he paused. He reached out and touched the silver pendant around Ragnor's neck. He drew his hand back quickly, but studied Ragnor. "You were meant to be a great ruler; a champion of G.o.d."

"If so," Ragnor said smoothly, "perhaps G.o.d changed his mind."

"Just as evil comes in shadow, so justice can be found in evil," Edgar said, and went on.

"Saxons!" Wulfgar muttered, "they do enjoy speaking in riddles, in seeking answers where there are none."

"The answer is the balance," Ragnor said, and when they stared at him, he shrugged.

"We are all three savage in battle; were before, are now. And there is little guilt, because we were all born into a world where it was right to fight and be savage against equally barbaric enemies. So it remains among men. The Normans came to seize the crown, and they will keep killing to gain it-and the Norman lord will proclaim that G.o.d is on his side, the side of right. The Saxons will fight, and they will kill, and be killed. We all believe we are right when it is our enemies we kill. All the different tribes and people fought within England in times past, and now they must fight for it. The Normans won't slay the populace indiscriminately, or there will be none to till the fields, to herd the livestock, to prepare their meals, make their clothes. It is always the same. The greatest destroyer knows that he will have gained nothing if he has not won those to serve him. As the Saxon has said-he understands battle, dominion, and death. But he believes in a death in which the souls of men will go to their G.o.d. Perhaps we are d.a.m.ned ourselves, but we do know that there is balance on the earth, and without it, we all perish."

"Quite a speech," Lucian told him skeptically. "So we will go out-as champions of the dead."

"We will go out because I know that Nari and my brother are most certainly to blame.

And vengeance is the greatest of my concerns. I have healed, and I am ready to meet them again."

"So be it, then. We'll sail south with the Saxon."

"And pray that our ships don't sink!" Wulfgar muttered.

They sailed south, around the coast of Cornwall, then rode the distance inland. Along the way, they came upon houses etched with the sign of the cross. Bodies had been burned in great piles in the fields. At each dwelling and farmstead, they halted, and destroyed the remains of any they found within houses and home, for there were areas where no one remained to see to the dead. They rode mostly by night, and when they stopped, they prowled through the churchyards as well, where Edgar seemed to turn a shade a green as they ripped through the shrouds of the freshly buried, dismembering the bodies, or setting them on great pyres.

Never, however, did Edgar protest.

At last they came to the village known as Twickham, where Edgar's overlord had once ruled. There, the Saxon earl of the region had ruled from the power of a fortress of wood and earth, built high upon a motte.

As they approached, by moonlight, Edgar begged them to halt. "The gates were kept securely locked by night when I left. Now, they stand open."

"Wait here," Lucian told Edgar. "I'd rather take my chances with you," Edgar said.

"Better to let him enter in flesh, while we take shadow," Ragnor said.

"I will be bait?" Edgar asked.

"We'll be with you," Ragnor a.s.sured him.

And so they left the horses behind, and concealed themselves in shadow, following as Edgar rode slowly.

Torches burned from sconces set into the walls once they breeched the main gate. And within, men in armor lay here and there upon the earth, among slaughtered animals, dung, and refuse. Edgar's horse shied, and would go no further, and so the man dismounted. He walked along, heading for the manor house, and they followed. At one point, the Saxon warrior let out a gutteral cry of fear as a body moved, a mail-clad arm reaching out for his ankle. Ragnor took form, and reached for the newly fallen man. The arm was cold as ice; stone dead. Edgar turned away as Ragnor disposed of the fresh remains of the once mighty Norman knight, removing the head with a powerful twist.

"Keep moving," Ragnor murmured, from darkness.

Edgar walked on.

The door to the manor stood open as well.

Within, Hagan sat at the main table before the fire, fur-booted feet upon the rough- hewn table, hands laced behind his head as he eased in a carved oak chair. Before him, a fire burned at the hearth. Throughout the hall, the dead and dying lay at odd angles while his fellows bent over them here and there, seeking the living among the dead, hot blood which had not yet turned cold. Nari sat at the end of the table, hands folded in her lap, lips pouting as she stared at Hagan. Ragnor saw the cause of her anger; Hagan had taken one of the Norman slave collars and set it around the throat of a young, light-haired woman dressed in a tunic of fine dyed linen. She was leashed and on her knees by his chair, her eyes downcast.

"Be done with it, Hagan," Nari said angrily. "We are finished here. The others search for sc.r.a.ps! You claimed that you would follow the conquerors, that we could gain position and wealth, as well as a feast of the fallen."

Hagan appeared to ignore her at first, drawing on the chain that held his captive to him, catching a strand of the young woman's hair, twirling it in his fingers. Then he looked up at Nari. "I am amused by this one's courage. I think she should join us."

"I think she should not."

"You're jealous, and how silly of you, dear Nari!"

Nari sighed. "I am weary of you!"

"You're a coward. You were afraid one of those stalwart fellows so quick to slice the throats of peasants would manage to sever your pretty head. You want to run away and hide. No, that's not it, is it? You're such a liar, Nari. And such a cheat. You want to go back to Scotland and dig up my dear brother. Leash your hunger, as I have leashed this slave, and enter the world of sotted fools! Why, you're afraid of me."

"You're an idiot. You forget who I am."

"Do I? Never. You were not the chieftain' s daughter, Nari, but a child adopted from a raid in the East. You had your village completely fooled-the poor naive idiots never knew that it was you, the adored child taken in by a powerful man, who brought h.e.l.l on earth down upon them! But you never imagined that you would take a warrior with a greater thirst than your own, and so you have found a companion such as you never imagined! But you do still hunger for my brother, so you will allow me play with my captives."

Listening, Ragnor nearly lost his concentration and his grip on the shadow world. He had never known .. . would have never known. Brother Peter had not known that they had harbored the lamia who had started it all.

She had come to him in dreams, as if afraid, repelled by the existence she had chosen.

And perhaps he had hoped that what he had seen in dreams had been true. He had never suspected that she had been the initial evil to seize upon them all.

And still .. .

Hagan's followers, dark and light, Scot, Norse, and Easterner, had gone still. Hagan himself fell silent.

They had seen Edgar, standing at the door.

"Well, well," Hagan muttered, standing. He smiled slowly. "What have we here? A strayed and beaten Saxon thane, seeking to return to his home! Well, sir Saxon, you should be pleased to see this all-before you perish, of course. There, you see, about the floor, your enemy! Aren't you pleased to see that those who thrashed you so soundly have fallen as well?"

"I see only that you are a greater destroyer than any on earth," Edgar said. "And I have come to stop you." He pulled out his sword.

Nari stood as well, backing away from the table, her eyes narrowed. Once again, she wanted no part of danger.

Hagan started to laugh. He lifted his chin. Two of his undead followers strode forward.

Edgar was no coward; he went to strike one, but the other rose, attempting to fly at him.

Ragnor swept forward, hurling his weight against the creature who would seize upon Edgar's throat, and they hurtled across the room.

As Hagan became aware that Edgar had not come alone, he reached for his own weapon, striding forward in a fury, roaring out a challenge. "This is my domain! I honor no law of the ancients and will destroy anyone- living or dead-who challenges my conquest here!"

Edgar, in desperation for his life, fought with no thought of squeamishness-swinging with learned swordplay meant to sever heads as more of the demons rushed forward. But by then, Ragnor and the others had thrown off the cloaks of shadow they wore, and the room was pitched into an instant battlefield.

And while the others dealt with the dark army of Hagan's making, Ragnor stepped forward to face his brother.

"You! I should have known!" Hagan shouted, and seemed glad of the challenge. "little brother, how many times will I be forced to put you into h.e.l.l?"

"This time, Hagan, you have no edge of treachery or surprise to serve you, and you are the one who will lie in h.e.l.l."

Their swords clashed. Steel locked with steel, and their eyes met as each struggled for the upper hand. Hagan rushed at Ragnor; he ducked low, b.u.t.ting his brother hard in the midriff, and casting him off with such ferocity that he flew across the room and crashed against the mantel, sending tongs and pokers flying into the blaze, and sparks flying across the room.

Hagan immediately rose, howling as bits of flame seared his flesh. Enraged, he stared from his scorched and burning arm to his brother, and once again came across the room, a cry like thunder on his lips. Ragnor was ready-stepping aside of the charge, and bringing his sword down on his brother's shoulders as he raged past. As Hagan fell, Nari suddenly came to life, flying at Ragnor, and catching his arm. "Ragnor, he's your brother, and one of... us. You must stop, you can't-"

"I can't what, Nari? Both of you took swings at my neck, if you'll recall."

"But you can't do this, I know you, and I need your forgiveness, and-"

Nari was suddenly drawn from him. Wulfgar was there, shrugging. "No, no, my dear.