The Rot

by Siri Pettersen

  The rock face was bare and somewhat lacking in hand and footholds. Rime made his way up toward the fissure where the men were standing. A gap in the rock, dark as the space left by a missing tooth. He pulled himself up over the edge and stood next to the hairy giant of a man that Ravnhov called chieftain. Eirik’s beard had gotten longer. A wiry tangle streaked with gray that probably hadn’t seen a comb since the Rite.

  Rime mopped his brow and looked out across Blindból, at the black mountains sticking up like fingers from the forest floor far below. He’d stood here before. Right here, with Hirka. Before the mountains had turned white and the trees had frozen. They’d traveled through Blindból together after that fateful night in the Seer’s tower.

  He’d kissed her that night. Halfway up a mountain, while the heavens raged. Her lips. His fingers in her wet hair. His body quickened at the memory and he immediately forced it out of his mind. In any case, she’d pushed him away. Afraid of the rot. Terrified because she was a child of Odin and he was an ymling.

  Eirik’s blue eyes twinkled at him, seeing right through his melancholy. “Come!” the chieftain rumbled. He threw his arm around Rime’s shoulders and they started walking. “What did I tell you, Ynge? You owe me a silver.”

  “Don’t I always?” Ynge replied.

  “You were betting on my life?” Rime asked. “Is it any wonder Mannfalla calls you wild men?”

  Eirik patted his shoulder. “We bet on whether you would take the main road or come through Blindból. I won because I know you’re a wild man at heart, Rime An-Elderin.”

  Ynge snorted. “A ravenbearer, traveling alone through Blindból in the winter? Without guardsmen? Without a carriage? You have to admit, the odds were in my favor …”

  Rime decided not to comment.

  They climbed up the stone steps and came out on the plateau. A yellow bridge lay across the ravine—the way into the chieftain’s household.

  “Ynge, tell them Mannfalla’s here,” Eirik said, shooing Ynge away like a dog. “And remember the silver!” Ynge made a hand gesture that was anything but polite. Rime followed Eirik past the tree in the yard, an ancient spruce that towered over the great hall. That was where Rime had fought Tein, the chieftain’s son. He’d let Tein win, to save face. For the sake of peace. For Hirka.

  Ravnhov had been transformed. Icicles hung from steep turfed roofs on houses that huddled together on the slope. Beneath them, the road meandered its way down toward the town. Rime could see more people on the wall than before. They were heavily armed. Blue banners with yellow crowns fluttered in the wind. A burned-out cart sat half-buried in the snow by the gate. Broken shields were piled in front of one of the houses. Remnants of war.

  People stared at him as they crossed the frost-covered courtyard. Two girls came toward them carrying a brace of dead rabbits. They whispered together and smiled at him from under snow-dusted hoods.

  “Do they still hate me?” Rime asked.

  The chieftain chuckled. “No, I don’t think so. From what we’ve heard, you’re doing a better job of toppling Mannfalla than we could do ourselves. Come on. The messages you sent with the ravens were a bit light on details, but I think we’ve got what you’re looking for.”

  Rime followed him around the back of the great hall and up into the mountains. The same way they’d gone when Eirik had shown him the dead blindling in the ice, but that wasn’t where they were going this time. Instead, Eirik ushered Rime into a crevice in the mountainside. It opened into a snow-covered space, circular with sheer rock walls. An idol stood in its center, a shapely woman astride a two-headed raven.

  Rime had heard about this place. It must have been from Hirka. Once she got talking, she never stopped.

  Who does she talk to now?

  “These are our books,” Eirik said, pointing at the rock wall. It was decorated with images. Carved into the stone and painted, all the way around. “A far cry from the library in Mannfalla, though.”

  “Maybe,” Rime replied. “But I doubt what you have here can be found in the books of Mannfalla.”

  Eirik’s beard lifted, betraying a smile. They looked at each other. The chieftain and the Ravenbearer. Ravnhov and Mannfalla.

  “Bleakest Blindból, Rime, it’s good to see you,” Eirik said. The warmth was unexpected, but appreciated. Rime’s respect for him had grown since they’d last seen each other, and he had the feeling it was mutual. But they both knew that the world was bigger than them. Whatever they thought of each other, it paled in comparison to the will of the people. They were still enemies, fresh from battle—and with fewer men than before. Memories wrought in blood weren’t quick to fade.

  They followed a path along the wall, where the snow had been trodden down. Even with gloves on, Rime’s hands were frozen stiff, but he wanted answers and he needed Eirik on his side.

  “I’ve asked quite a few people about your concerns, Rime, and I’ve been given just as many answers. They might live forever, the blind. Some say they’re already dead. But we’ve killed them together, you and I. So we know they can die. That’s what counts. Whether they live ten years or a thousand years is beside the point.” Eirik stopped. “Here. The victory.”

  Rime lifted a hand to the wall and brushed snow away from the carving. It depicted a group of ymlings. A man kneeled before them, hollow-eyed and holding his hands in front of his groin. A blindling. A tall woman with upturned palms stood next to him, a sword floating over one of her hands, a flower over the other. She might have been a goddess, or a councillor. It was difficult to say. The one thing Rime was sure of was the figure hovering above the others. His arms were outstretched, his fingers splayed like feathers. Wings. He was the Seer. The victor. God.

  “Do you know who this is?” Rime pointed at the kneeling blindling. Red lines crossed his back.

  “The learned say he represents the blind,” Eirik replied. “That we shouldn’t think of him as a specific individual.”

  “They’re wrong, Eirik. He existed. He was their leader.”

  “The elders agree. Those old enough to sneer at the learned.” Eirik chuckled and crossed his arms over his chest. His jacket was in danger of splitting across his shoulders. “Listen, we’re not stupid, Rime. I know you’re angry, that you think the girl left for no reason. But we knew that already, didn’t we? Her leaving was never a guarantee that we wouldn’t see the deadborn again, no matter what that old sot of a stone whisperer says. Let them rattle on about sorcery and blindcraft until they rot. It’s of little help to us. Hirka’s not here. The blind are. We need to deal with the problem at hand. War is war.”

  The chieftain’s words rang true, but Rime could hear the concern behind them. Not about the nábyrn, not about the war, but for Rime.

  “You don’t have to tell me that, Eirik. That’s why I’m here. War is war. But it doesn’t matter what we do. The deadborn will keep coming. We can fight for our survival, but the war can’t be won here. Not in Ym. It can only be won where she is.”

  The chieftain’s eyes softened. “Rime, the elders say the stones have been devouring people since the circles were built, sending them straight to Slokna. What makes you think she’s still alive?”

  “She’s alive.”

  The chieftain rubbed his bad shoulder. It was easy to read the doubt in his eyes. Rime grabbed hold of him. “She’s alive, Eirik, and like I said, she can do what none of us can! She can open the gateways. Hlosnian calls it traveler’s blood. You need to listen to what I’m saying. She’s alive, and she’s the key to the war we both know is coming.”

  Rime could hear the chaos of his words. How they were coming out in the wrong order and making no sense. He sounded like a madman. He needed to think like Kolkagga. He needed to set his feelings aside. He needed to be a councillor. Ravenbearer.

  “Eirik, the nábyrn live for a long time. The deadborn coming for us now are the same ones that came a thousand years ago. The Seer saved us from his own people. And he closed the raven rings so they would never c
ome back.”

  Eirik chuckled again. “The men got a real kick out of your letter. The Seer you said doesn’t exist, does exist after all. Is that what you’re saying, An-Elderin?”

  Rime slammed his palm against the image carved into the rock, dislodging more snow. “He’s alive! And the man kneeling before him is alive. They’re not just symbols or legends. They have names. Graal and Naiell. They were brothers—deadborn brothers who fought side by side.”

  “Listen,” Eirik replied, pulling Rime into the middle of the hollow, over to the idol. “We still make sacrifices here, just as our ancestors did, and their ancestors before them. Slokna is full of people who have sacrificed their own blood and the blood of others to the stones. So maybe you’re right. A lot of the people I’ve talked to think that’s how it started. People gave blood to the stones to open them, to let people—and who knows what else—in and out. I’d have said it was nonsense if I hadn’t seen what I’ve seen. But we can’t fight something we can’t see. Or get to.”

  “We can get to them! Urd talked to Graal, and I can do the same. I can stop him.” Rime was chilled by his own words. Maybe he hadn’t realized until just then how far he was willing to go.

  “Rime, call me crazy, but if these stories are true, I’d say you’re worrying about the wrong man. It’s not the enemy who’s lost the most you should fear—it’s the one who still has something to lose.”

  Rime frowned. Eirik’s words challenged everything he’d believed. He wanted to argue. Graal had lost all that he was. All that he had. He’d been betrayed. Punished, tortured, humiliated—and exiled. What kind of anger would emerge from such seeds? And what would it be like now, after a thousand years? But still …

  Eirik kept talking like they were still just discussing stories. Not matters of life and death. “If the blindling turned on his own people to gain absolute power over the eleven kingdoms, I’d bet they’re hardly singing his praises. In which case, he has every reason to be pissing himself now that the blind are returning—whether he’s here or not.”

  “He’s where she is.”

  “The Seer?”

  “The Seer is where she is.”

  Eirik raised a bushy eyebrow. “So what you’re saying is that the one with the greatest incentive to keep the gateways closed is with the girl who can open them?”

  Rime closed his eyes. The chieftain’s words were sharp as knives. He said it as it was, more plainly than Rime had dared say it himself. He nodded.

  “Hmm … So let’s hope you’ve lost your mind and that all this is nonsense, Ravenbearer! If not, it’s bad news for the girl. And gods help me, but I liked her. She had real backbone, solid as a rock.”

  Eirik patted Rime’s shoulder and led him back through the chasm. “Mannfalla’s taken its toll on you, Rime. You’re pale as a blindling. Luckily that’s nothing that can’t be cured with ale and a good night’s sleep. Everything will seem better tomorrow.”

  Eirik’s words reminded Rime of his other errand. He fell into step beside the chieftain. “Eirik, I’m here on behalf of Eisvaldr, to offer you a place on the Council.” Rime had repeated the words to himself several times, but now they just sounded hollow. Eirik stopped.

  “On behalf of Eisvaldr, you say? They sent you?”

  “I’m the Ravenbearer. I don’t need to be sent.”

  “No, I suppose not. And I know you mean well. So thanks, but no thanks. I have enough chairs here. I don’t need another one in Mannfalla.”

  Rime had been prepared for him to say that. “Do you remember the last time I was here, Eirik? I fought Tein. Your son. Do you remember what you said to me afterward?”

  “I remember.” Eirik looked embarrassed but continued. “I said that if you were Mannfalla, I’d follow you.”

  Rime stepped closer and looked the chieftain square in his bright blue eyes. “Now I am Mannfalla, Eirik. I need you there. The eleven kingdoms need you there. That’s why you’ll say yes tomorrow.”

  Eirik laughed, but he didn’t protest.

  A black cloud appeared above them. A croaking chorus on wings. The ravens were coming home, as they did every evening. As they’d done since the world was born. And as they’d probably continue to do long after everyone was dead. Some of them danced in pairs, as was their wont in mid-Helfmona. Spring would soon be upon them, and with it, the celebration of Egga, of egg-laying and new ravens. Life went on.

  But not for Rime.

  Somewhere, on the other side of the stones, Hirka was surrounded by traitors. Deadborn monsters. He needed to find her. He’d promised he would, and Rime was Kolkagga. He kept his promises. And Damayanti was going to help him.

  Rime slept fitfully, drifting in and out of dreams. Hirka lured him up a bare tree, asking him to come to her. He wanted to, but the trunk was slippery and cold as glass. It grew as he tried to climb, cutting his hands. She got smaller and smaller, disappearing up into the gray sky. The smell of death hung in the air. Smoke. Ash.

  It started to rain. The water washed the dirt from his face. Made the tree trunk even more slippery. He slid down. Blood poured from his hands. The rain turned to sand. Black sand, like in an hourglass. It poured and poured, thundering against the ground. An intolerable noise. Hirka was standing high up in the tree, arms outstretched. She was going to jump.

  No! Don’t do it! He reached out to stop her, but no matter how he tried he couldn’t reach her. She smiled. Then she fell backward and plunged deep into the sea of mud and sand.

  Rime jerked awake. He reached back and gripped the hilt of his sword, which was sticking out from under his pillow. He’d heard something. He kept his breathing deep and even so as not to tip off the intruder. He stared into the darkness. There was movement behind the door.

  Amateurs. They haven’t even made it inside.

  He got up without a sound and arranged his bedding so it would look like he was still lying there. Then he pulled himself up onto a rafter, just as the door cracked open. A black figure entered. Even a rock would have heard him coming. One thing was for certain—he wasn’t Kolkagga.

  The figure was wearing a frost-encrusted fur jacket that creaked with every movement. He padded uncertainly toward the bed holding a knife out in front of him. Clumsy. Wide open to attack. Was this the standard of assassins in Ravnhov? Rime caught himself hoping his services hadn’t cost much. Would the man even get up the nerve to attack? Or was he here to rob him?

  He didn’t have to wait long to find out. The figure threw himself at the bed, knife-first, and barely suppressed a gasp when he realized no one was there. Rime drew on the Might, jumped down, and slammed the door shut. He wasn’t going to let his assassin escape.

  The stranger whirled around, his eyes shining with terror in the darkness. Rime’s anger swelled with the Might. If they were going to kill him, the least they could do was put some effort into it.

  Rime moved his arms to his sides, exposing his bare chest to give the man a false sense of security. “What have they promised you in return for killing the Ravenbearer?” The man swallowed in response. Rime waited. Realization would soon dawn in the stranger’s eyes. The certainty that only one of them would leave the room alive. The man’s gaze faltered.

  There. He understands.

  The man raised the knife and came at him. Rime intercepted him and sent him careening into the wall. He dropped like a stone, knocking over a stool and flailing on the floor. Rime could have killed him in an instant, but he needed to know who had sent him.

  The man let out a groan but was back on his feet surprisingly fast. Fuelled by panic. Rime could hear the blood roaring in his ears. This was what he was trained for.

  The man came at him again, knife held far out in front of him. Still completely open to attack. Rime swung his sword into the man’s side. He screamed and fell onto the bed. Rime flung his sword aside and jumped on top of him. He wrested the knife from the man and clamped a hand over his mouth, muffling his screams.

  They lay face to face in the be
d, like man and wife. Rime felt hot blood against his skin and smiled in the knowledge that it wasn’t his own. He plunged the knife into the side of the man beneath him. Screams and spittle forced their way between his fingers. The man wrenched his head back but couldn’t break free.

  “Shhh …” Rime whispered in his ear, holding him tight. The man quieted down, only the occasional muffled sob pushing past his hand now.

  “I’ll give you a choice,” Rime said quietly. “Death has come for you. You can either rest in Slokna, or face an eternal nightmare. It’s up to you.” The man stared at him, his eyes wet and disbelieving. Terrified.

  “Tell me, who sent you?” Rime waited a moment for an answer. None was forthcoming. He twisted the knife deeper into the wound. The man tensed beneath him like a lover. “Who?” he asked again.

  “Dark …” Rime lifted his hand just enough for him to get the word out. “Darkdaggar.”

  As he’d suspected. The Council.

  “Are you alone? Are there more of you?”

  The man shook his head frantically. His breath was making Rime’s hand clammy.

  “Sleep it is, then.” Rime pulled the knife out and plunged it into the man’s heart before he could so much as groan. He died instantly. Blood pumped out between Rime’s fingers. Death. Not politics. He was no ravenbearer. No councillor. This was what he was. An assassin. He wasn’t made to sit at a table playing war games. He was Kolkagga. A destroyer.

  Rime dragged the man’s body outside and into the courtyard. His head thudded down the stone steps. People had been woken up. Two night watchmen came running. Shouting. A woman appeared with a lamp. She put a hand over her mouth. Eirik moved past her, walking at first, but then he started to run.

  The chieftain stopped in front of the body, his breath dancing in the air around his mouth. The realization of what had happened was written in his eyes. Eirik lifted both hands, as if to ward off a catastrophe. “Rime, he’s not one of us. No one here would …”