The Emerald Key - By Christopher Dinsdale Page 0,2

Patrick himself carved this cross. When he returned to Ireland, he realized that in order to convert the local pagans to Christianity, he would have to somehow blend the Irish culture and his faith into one. The key, he discovered, was in art. Your necklace is the combination of those two cultures; the Christian cross and the Celtic weave. And you, my little Kiera, are Ireland’s future. It is through children like you that our culture will live on.”

“Thank you, Father Francis,” she said, admiring the pendant.

“And now we must go. The Vikings will soon be upon us.”

Pouring a liquid into the trough, he snuffed out the fire and the treasure vault went dark. By the light of his single torch, the priest and child climbed back up into the stable. Father Francis bent over and pushed the large flat stone over the opening to the catacomb. It rumbled into position and thudded securely into place, hiding any trace of the chamber below. He then closed the wooden hatch on top of it.

“Will you help me with the final task?” he asked.

Kiera nodded.

Together they took the torch and set the straw in each corner of the stable on fire, then hurried out the doorway. When they’d left the confines of the stable, Kiera stopped and gasped. The entire village was already engulfed in flames.

“The Vikings are here?” she screamed.

“No, Kiera, the villagers themselves lit the buildings on fire. We agreed to burn the town to the ground ourselves to stop the Vikings from finding our treasure. This way, it will remain hidden for a long time.”

Kiera tore her eyes away from the flames and what was once the only home she knew. “What else can I do?” she asked, bravely.

“You can now get yourself to safety. Promise me you will run straight to your family. Do not stop for any reason.”

She nodded fearfully. The stable was licking the morning twilight with long orange tongues of flame.

“Go, Kiera. Run!”

Kiera glanced back at the old priest one last time before she turned and disappeared behind the tannery. Father Francis hurried toward the river. With luck, he would make it back to the monastery in time to mount his horse and join the brothers of the abbey in nearby Kildare. As he made a dash for the abbey gates, a giant hand reached out from the darkness, grasped him hard by the throat, and lifted his feet straight off the ground.

A thunderous shout echoed throughout the village.

“They’ve destroyed their own village! My treasure is lost!”

Olaf Erikson, the mountainous leader of the Vikings, was furious. He stomped along the river’s edge and pounded the bow of his ship with his fist.

“Olaf,” shouted a returning warrior, “I found this brown-robe running for the monastery.”

Olaf turned and set his icy-blue stare on Bjorn, the only warrior in his raiding party who came close to his own legendary strength. He was carrying the monk by the scruff of his robe. The priest’s feet were dangling at least a foot off the ground. Olaf was impressed by Bjorn’s shrewdness. The brown-robe would likely know the location of the treasure, but quite often these men of a single god were reluctant to talk, even under the threat of death.

“Well done, Bjorn. Throw him down here.”

Father Francis was dropped unceremoniously onto the mud of the riverbank.

“Father,” the Viking said in rough Celtic, “I have heard from a respected source that your abbey is home to a valuable treasure. I would very much like to see it. Could you tell me of its location?”

“I’m sorry,” the priest gasped as he rubbed his burning throat. “I don’t know what you are talking about. I am just a humble servant of God.”

Olaf grunted and placed the cold sharpened point of his sword under the chin of the priest.

“I am not a very patient man, Father. I can see that you set your village on fire. I would like to know which of the burning buildings is the tannery stable.”

“The tannery stable?”

The Viking chuckled. “After a little persuasion from my leather whip, a sapper in a nearby village told me there might be something of interest under the floor of the tannery stable.”

Father Francis looked up blank-faced. Olaf could tell this man was not going to be of any help. In a rage, Olaf brought the sword high in the air and was about to bring it down on the priest’s neck when Bjorn grabbed his wrist.

“The brown-robe might be more cooperative with the