Along the west coast of Scotland lies a chain of islands of such beauty and grandeur even the most ardent romantic is hard-pressed to describe their majesty. Curving bays of glistening white sand and glittering seas of every hue vie to take one’s breath while jagged, spray-strewn skerries and sheer, impossibly steep cliffs compete with gentle, grass-grown dunes and long-tumbled ruins to stir the soul.
Ruled for centuries by the pagan Norse, the Hebrides is a place of legend, each isle steeped in ancient lore and tradition. Sea-gods, mer-folk, and fabled Celtic heroes abound, their mythic tales spun with relish by silver-tongued bards in the long, dark cold of deep winter nights.
But not all such tales are widely known.
Indeed, some are kept secret.
And one of the most intriguing secrets to be found in the vast Sea of the Hebrides belongs to the once-proud Clan MacConacher.
Broken, small in number, and ill-favored with the Scottish crown, the MacConachers dwell far from their erstwhile seat in Argyll; their straight-backed, long-suffering ranks reduced to scratching out a living on a rocky, windswept isle surrounded by reefs and rough seas.
An isle they cherish because it is all that remains left to them, and, above all, because MacConacher’s Isle lies well beyond the reach of the dread MacKenzies, the powerful clan that ruined them.
Not that the MacConachers wish to forget their doom-bringing foes.
Far from it, the present chieftain is young, bold, and of fiery spirit. Keen to throw off his clan’s mantle of shame and sorrow, he has only two burning ambitions. He lives to restore his family’s good name and fortune. As he also plans for the day he can wreak vengeance on Clan MacKenzie.
His least concern is his clan’s most precious possession, the Thunder Rod.
Given to an ancestor by a Norse nobleman, the relic is a polished length of fossilized wood, intricately carved with runes and still bearing bits of brilliant color. Clan elders claim the rod was either a piece of wood torn from the prow of Thor’s own longboat or, perhaps, crafted by a great Viking lord for his lady to keep in his remembrance when at sea.
Roughly the size of a man’s forearm and rumored to hold great magic, its particular powers do not interest the braw MacConacher chieftain.
Until the stormy morning when the black winds of fate present him with an irresistible opportunity to settle a long-simmering score.
Now, at last, he can use the Thunder Rod.
If he dares.