Smoke in the Glass

by Chris Humphreys

  As he limped along, Luck wondered again at something he’d never ceased wondering at, this power of transformation. He, who’d ever sought to know the world better, how every part of it worked, how those many parts were joined, had never fathomed how a god’s body could vanish, how a god’s spirit could enter a beast. It was so beyond all the other ways of nature that he observed. But Gudrun Gift-Bearer had left no explanations, only the gift itself. If she ever existed, Luck thought, stopping to catch breath and look up into the snow still falling. Sometimes he also wondered if the tale of Gudrun was just another story, invented before some hearth-fire long ago, to explain the unexplainable.

  He shook his head. Even the one goblet of mead, the necessary toast to the feast, had dulled him. And he needed to be clear. He had told Freya all he knew, all he’d seen, and it was little enough. When he got back to his hut, he would ask the stones once more, or seek shapes in a basin of water; try again to give substance to his fears. Something in the east, he’d said to her, but as to where and what, he had no more than his uncertain suspicions. And his dread. When he’d sought before, in stone or water, a sense of dread was truly all he’d understood.

  He came to a cross-paths. Agnetha’s hut was on one corner, the sign of her profession hanging from the eaves above the door: a twisted cloth, dyed in deepest indigo. As he looked at it, a faint cry reached him through the wind.

  Yearning gripped him. Perhaps he could have offered himself to her, prophecy and its fulfilment, both. She’d probably have taken him, for the benefits he’d bring to her, the triplets he’d promised. She was also kind-hearted and would have thought it sad that he was alone on the feast night. But pity was something he’d seen in another’s gaze from the first moment he could remember, and ever since in every stranger’s eyes. Four hundred years of that and still he could not bear it. Only one person had ever looked at him without pity. One woman. His Gytta, a mortal, dead at sixty, and that ten long years ago, after the shortest forty years of his life.

  He sniffed, took another step – and pulled up, face swivelling again to the hut. Another cry had stopped him – but this one had nothing of heat and passion in it. And hearing it, Luck moved as fast as his one strong leg would allow him to the hut’s door. He did not know much about this Einar the Black, save that he was a god of the southern mountains and had arrived on eagle’s wings, his customary transformation. He’d appeared a reasonable sort. But appearances deceived, especially among the shape-shifting gods. And Luck had not made his prophecy to see Agnetha – a decent, simple soul – hurt in any way.

  Yet he paused at the door. He had to be sure. Despite his years he was inexperienced in the ways of love-making. With Gytta it had always been simple, easy, fulfilling. But he understood that some people took pleasure in different things, even painful things. So he bent an ear – and heard another cry, a moan of hurt and such terror, it had no pleasure in it, none. He also heard another sound. He’d heard it before, too often in fact, had never got used to it, as some did.

  It was the noise a blade made slicing into flesh.

  There was no time to call out for help. There was only time to take a deep breath, pull up the latch and throw open the door.

  Agnetha’s hut was crowded with things for her trade: cauldrons, ladles, undyed cloth and bundles of dried plants. A large bed occupied most of the room. At its foot, on the floor, Agnetha lay, eyes fluttering; a jagged gash across her brow leaked blood. On the bed were two men, joined. Einar the Black was below, face down with a hooded man on his back. It was if he were riding the god for he had Einar’s long black hair gripped like a rein in one hand – and a saw-edged cleaver in his other. He was using it to cut the god’s head off.

  Luck was no more a fighter than he was a lover. But his people were, and there had been times over the centuries when he’d been unable to avoid combat. And he recognised that now was no time to pause – not with the stranger on the bed turning towards him, rising, cleaver held high.

  Luck snatched up a pot, and hurled it. His one weak arm made the other all the stronger and the pot flew at the man, who managed to turn his head and take the blow on the shoulder. It must have hurt but he didn’t even grunt, just dropped Einar and leapt off the bed to land lightly three paces away. Again Luck didn’t hesitate, knew he couldn’t. He might be small and misshapen but most of him was muscle, his weight concentrated. Springing off his one good leg he closed the gap and drove his head into the man’s belly.

  They crashed back onto the bed, scrabbling over Agnetha who woke, moaned, then screamed. They fell onto Einar. He was unconscious and, in a glance, Luck noted the reason: his neck was sawn half through. The hooded man raised the cleaver – but he couldn’t swing down the blade, Luck was too close. So instead he hammered its iron pommel straight down onto Luck’s crooked back. He yelped, tried to burrow higher, reaching a hand for the man’s eyes, but the shortness of his arm meant he couldn’t make them. Another blow came, another, the pain extraordinary. Luck felt himself losing consciousness. Somehow he managed to get one flailing leg onto the bed’s end board. Springing off that, he jabbed his fingers into the man’s throat.

  It wasn’t the strongest of blows. But the man gasped, dropped the cleaver, placed his hands under Luck and heaved. He was strong, and threw Luck off the side of the bed. Luck landed hard but grabbed the first thing that came to hand, raised it to stop the blow he felt sure was going to come, as the man grabbed the cleaver again and lifted it high. Yet when Luck saw that he held only a wooden ladle, he also saw death descending in the razor-toothed blade. It was one of the very few ways to kill a god – cut off his head, take it far from the body, fast. He had proved, too late, that someone was indeed killing the gods – and knew that the murderer would make a double kill tonight.

  ‘Stop!’

  The cry came loud and sudden from the open doorway. Luck knew the voice. ‘Freya!’ he screamed. ‘Run!’

  But Freya was a goddess of warriors and she did not run from a fight. Drawing the dagger from her belt sheath she stepped in and dropped into the knife fighter’s stance. At the same moment, Agnetha rolled away, stood, swayed, reached back and turned again with a carving knife in her hand.

  The assassin stood on the bed, weapon high, his eyes shifting between the three now opposing him. Then fury took his face, not fear, and he leapt – straight towards Freya, standing before the open door.

  ‘No!’ Luck screamed.

  Freya slipped sideways, the cleaver missing her by a thumb’s width. The man did not stop to aim another blow, just ran on; but as he passed, Freya swayed back up and jammed her blade into his hip. He stumbled, did not fall. Was gone.

  Freya stepped straight into the doorway, raised her knife to throw. ‘No!’ yelled Luck. ‘I need him alive.’

  He stood, limped towards the door, knowing it was useless, that even a wounded man would outrun him. Freya cried, ‘Wait!’ then, with her knife, sliced down her palm. Blood spurted and, pressing the red wetness to her eyes, she called once, clearly, ‘Hovard!’

  Luck was at the door, peering into the still fast-falling snow that hid everything – to sight but not to sound. So he heard the door of the mead hall crash open, the roars bursting out into the night. Heard his brother shout, ‘You! Stop there! Stop!’ Yet Luck had a raven’s hearing and he heard something else too – the distinct sound of a throwing axe clearing the leather of its sheath.

  ‘No,’ he said again but he didn’t shout it because he knew it was too late. He turned back to the bed. Einar’s cut was bad, deep. It would have killed any mortal. But Luck could see, even now, the blood clotting. ‘Hold his head,’ he ordered Agnetha. ‘Do not let him move.’ Then he turned and, with Freya at his side, went down the track.

  As they hurried side by side, she said, ‘I was worried for you, I came to—’

  ‘Thank all our gods that you did.’

  Some people had brought rush torches f
rom the hall. A circle had formed and Luck and Freya pushed between the backs to see Hovard and Bjorn, crouched over the body of the god-killer. ‘A good throw, brother,’ Bjorn exulted. ‘Right between the shoulders.’

  ‘Not such a good throw, brother,’ said Luck, stepping between them. ‘I wanted him alive.’ Suddenly he felt immensely weary and he sat, careless of the snow.

  Hovard looked down at him, and frowned. ‘I assumed he was a thief, which is why he didn’t stop. Why was it important to have him alive?’

  ‘No thief,’ Freya said. ‘This man just tried to kill Einar the Black.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to find out.’ Luck sighed, came onto his knees. ‘Roll his body over.’

  Bjorn did as he asked. Luck pulled the man’s hood back. His eyes were open. He looked surprised. His head was shaven, which never happened anywhere in Midgarth. His face was hairless too, also uncommon, and lean – whilst his eyes, beyond the surprise, were beyond dark – they were black. Not just the core. The whites too.

  ‘Not from here. Or anywhere near.’ Hovard leaned down to peer at the corpse. ‘But where? And how did he get here?’

  ‘Not a god,’ said Bjorn, jamming his boot toe into the man’s ribs. ‘He’d be stirring about now.’

  ‘Oh, he’s dead.’ Wearily, Luck stood, pulling himself up on Bjorn’s arm. ‘And how he got here is the first question.’ He looked around at the concerned faces of the townsmen and women, spilled from the hall. ‘He must have a boat hidden. Find it. Bring me anything in it.’ As they moved away, he called after them, ‘Open nothing!’

  All the mortals scattered to the shore. Only the gods went back inside. They sat at one end of the central table, close to the hearth. ‘Mead,’ demanded Luck, and the other three raised their eyebrows – they knew his tastes – but Bjorn filled his goblet and theirs. Luck drank fast, then put down the empty vessel. The others didn’t talk. They were looking at him, waiting while he did their thinking.

  Eventually, a man came in – Ulrich the smith. ‘We found his boat. Such a craft I have never seen.’ He shook his head. ‘They are carrying it up here. This was in it.’

  He placed a bag on the table. Made of dark leather, the size of Luck’s chest, it had a brass clasp and straps that would slip over someone’s two shoulders. There was a shape incised again and again all over it, each the size of a thumb tip. Holding the bag up to the light, Luck saw that every one was a crudely depicted eye. He looked at the other gods then undid the clasp and reached inside.

  The first object he pulled out was a small vial, made of thick, green glass, like the kind that sometimes washed up onto their shores, but finer. He could make out a viscous fluid within when he held the vial up to the firelight. It had a stopper fashioned from some pliable wood he didn’t recognise. With some difficulty, he withdrew it – and all four leaned their faces away from the sudden, acrid waft. It made him dizzy too, the same mind-whirl he’d get just before a vision came. Luck stoppered the vial again, set it aside, wiped his running eyes, then delved into the bag a little more carefully.

  A bundle of dried meat – elk, he thought – appeared next. Then an arm-length roll of soft, cured deerskin. Unrolling that, he grunted and held it up to the others.

  ‘A drawing,’ said Bjorn.

  ‘But what are these … flowing lines?’ asked Freya.

  ‘I think …’ Luck peered closer. ‘I think they are like the marks I carve onto my stones. My tala. Each one means something else. Many things else.’

  ‘You are saying this man could look at these and … and comprehend them?’ asked Bjorn. ‘Like I would read the signs of coming storm in the clouds?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘You are right and you are wrong,’ said Hovard, picking up the skin, scanning it. ‘Some of these marks you speak of could perhaps be understood only by him and the one who made them. But these other lines I can understand.’ He tapped them. ‘You know that when we plan an attack on another town, or consider an area of mountainside where we wish to drive the game, we trace the land in the dirt before we go?’ They all nodded. ‘This is like that. But not simple like that.’ He spread the skin onto the table, laid his finger on it. ‘This is our land. This here, that looks like a mouth? That’s our fjord. This,’ he tapped, ‘is the glacier above us.’

  Luck peered closer, whistled. ‘You are right, brother. This is indeed a drawing of our land.’

  ‘If that is so,’ Freya turned the skin towards her, jabbed her finger near the top, ‘then this is the mountain in the far east – the sleeping dragon, Molnalla, guardian and limit of our world. Impossible to climb, too high to fly over, even as an eagle. These waters that lap the northern shores? Impossible even for our mightiest ships to sail through. Many died trying to do so. Your parents—’ She broke off then laid her finger on other lines beyond the dragon, before seeking Luck’s eyes. ‘But this man, or whoever made this, has marked a world beyond, one we cannot know. How could he do such a thing?’

  A coldness came over Luck’s heart as he looked back at her, then at each of them in turn. ‘I think,’ he replied softly, ‘that someone may have found a way to climb the unclimbable mountains, or sail the unsailable seas.’

  All four took sudden, sharp breaths. All four looked to the ceiling of the hall and through it to the skies. It was Hovard who spoke first, after a while. ‘All knew this had to be possible. A barrier is just that – a thing that stops us going to the other side of it. There had to be other lands. And we all know our world has changed in the last fifty years. Longer, colder winters. Dryer summers. Storms of greater force than anyone has seen before.’ He licked dry lips. ‘If Luck is right, someone – this man at least – has used that change to find a way from his land to ours.’

  ‘But this … this is wonderful!’ Bjorn poured himself more mead. ‘Our world has always felt too small for our ambitions, you know this. We sail to fight our cousin folk of the Seven Isles with their gods, half a day away. We march for a week to take on the gods and men of the valley townships. We conquer, we lose, we die, we are reborn, we steal back the same old treasures. But if someone has figured out a way to come to us,’ his eyes shone, ‘then we can figure out a way to get to them. To go, explore … conquer!’ He raised his goblet high. ‘Because we are immortal gods and this man was not, they will be sheep. No! Better: worthy enemies so we will win much glory.’

  He drank half the draught, beamed at them. No one smiled back. ‘Bjorn,’ said Luck, ‘your courage, as always, does you credit. It is a pity your brains have never been able to keep up.’ He tapped the skin, his voice rising. ‘They are already here. I suspect they have been coming for years. And, you fool, they have been killing us gods all that time.’

  ‘What?’ Hovard reached across the table, shook Luck’s shoulder. ‘What do you mean by that? How can you know?’

  ‘I did not know. I suspected. The lack of gods at our feasts in recent years? Rumours from other towns? Something stirring in my tala stones, in the seeing waters?’ Luck swallowed. ‘But tonight I found the truth – when I saw that black-eyed killer trying to cut Einar’s head from his shoulders.’

  It silenced them all, even Bjorn. Luck reached once more into the bag – and this time his fingers touched something large, hard and so cold it almost burned. He pulled back his hand, took a deep breath, reached again – and pulled the hardness out, laying it swiftly on the table where it rolled before it settled.

  It was a globe, the size of two folded fists, made of that same hard seaglass-like substance. Yet its outside was only one part of it – a shell, a skin, a container to hold what was within – which moved, writhed like smoke shifting above a fire, like a sea fog, full of twisting shapes and forms that broke apart to re-form as others.

  Luck stared – and instinct took hold of him. Years, hundreds of them, so much time spent seeking what was not yet, in what was
now. Predicting fates for gods and men, in the casting of stones, or peering into the seeing waters. The smoke within this globe was like them, a surface to be penetrated, and he suddenly, clearly, knew what he had to do.

  The globe was attached to a flat piece of wood a finger thick. Setting that on the table, Luck sat, then reached for the glass vial. His voice when it came was thick, sluggish. He had already begun to sink deeper. ‘Cover your mouths. Do not breathe in with me. I suspect that this is poison.’ When the others had pulled up scarf or shirt, he unstoppered the vial and poured a single drop of liquid onto the globe.

  He managed to stopper the bottle again and lay it down just before he dropped it. Slumping back, he stared into the smoke swirling ever faster within the glass. Shapes came, to vanish in the instant of recognition: a horse’s head on the body of a man; the ruin of a ship of a type he’d never seen, scarcely afloat; a hole in a rock face with a bloody hand thrust through it. Lastly, lingeringly, a naked baby. He thought that the smoke was obscuring it, until he realised … the child had no face. And then in the brief moment before the image vanished, he realised something else.

  The child had no sex.

  It was the last he saw, before the smoke darkened – then coiled like a column, like a water spout on the sea or a snow devil twisting across an ice field. It thickened – then vanished. In its place was a face. Not a child.

  He filled the globe, this man with his bald head, and his black eyes set deep in folds of flesh. When he opened his mouth, he revealed teeth that were also black and sharpened to points. Full lips shaped a word, coming on a voice that was liquid and rich.

  ‘Alon?’ the man said.

  Luck gasped. He could not speak, could barely think, could only stare, as the shaven man’s eyes focused, then pierced Luck’s own as if his look was made of needles. Then something contracted at the heart of the blackness. Hissing, the man merged into the smoke, leaving nothing but smoke behind.