Smoke in the Glass

by Chris Humphreys

  ‘Brother!’ he called. But the only response was harsh breaths, bubbling through bloodied lips and nose. ‘Brother,’ he whispered, the word a comfort at least. If they were marked to die in this box – well, out of it, for there was barely room for them inside, let alone a headsman – at least they would die together.

  Not yet though, Luck thought. There is something I can do first.

  He took some deeper breaths, released them slowly, allowing his body and his mind to ease. Even if he was caged, bound, even if no animal could come within the metal walls, there was still a way for him to be free. A part of him, anyway.

  It didn’t take long. He’d been practising for centuries, after all. A few more breaths from the shrinking store. A sinking down. His body slept in the prison. His mind leapt free.

  Is it my mind any more? Luck thought, as he always thought, despite the countless times he’d done this. His body was certainly gone, bound and breathless in the iron box that was now … below him. As a child, and long before he’d learned how to possess the body of a bird, Luck had flown in dreams. Soon he’d learned how to control the flight, what direction to choose. But just as when he took an animal and was always part subject to the beast’s lusts and urges, so in flight he was aware, as now, that it was not only what he thought of as ‘him’ that was flying. Or perhaps it was a different part of him. He’d called this other he ‘Haakon’ – the name of a hero, the last king of all Midgarth who’d united the whole land, mortals and immortals both, until he’d disappeared. Some said his spirit still roamed, as Luck’s could roam, waiting to return and reclaim his throne. That he lived in the winter wind, the sudden hailstorm, the crashing wave. Later Luck had thought it a second foolish name for a lame god, a childish fantasy alone. And yet when he flew, he was not crippled. He was the god of his dreams, as fierce as Bjorn, as beautiful as Freya, as wise as Hovard. That he could not lift a dove’s feather, could touch nothing and nobody, did not matter. And it was his alone, for though he’d tried to show them the way of it, not one of his brother gods, not even Freya, could manage it.

  The box is a little bigger than I reckoned, Luck thought, looking down upon it. And there was a grille of woven metal in its roof that would not let a hair through it, but would allow air in. Enough for two gods? They might not die … entirely. But would they have enough strength to fight, when six hours were spent, and Peki came to behead or flay the skin from one of them? Besides, there was always the drug in the dart that had first overcome them. More of that and they would not be awake to fight.

  Time to be doing, Luck told himself, and floated from the hut.

  Outside, he saw that he’d been right – the square-topped island was where all these people lived. The settlement itself was set within a bowl, so that none of the reed houses would be visible from the lake and marshes. The gases these exuded surrounded the land, making it look like a bread crust floating in a bowl of goat’s milk, or as if the island hovered in a cloud. Though even as he watched those mists started to fray, torn by winds. There were reed boats of various sizes on the beach where they’d come ashore, a path leading down to it; their own craft was among them. On the level ground, there were at least fifty long-houses, spread haphazardly about, each reed-roofed, each with clay chimneys spouting smoke. It was cold below, Luck-Haakon knew. Not so in the air above, with no body to chill.

  There was one larger, longer hut, near the centre of the island. At either end, two chimneys gushed; two separate structures had been joined. Figuring that only the leader would have the luxury of two fires, that was where Luck went, sinking down with one thought to hover for a moment above the woven reeds before slipping through them on another.

  He’d been right. It was the house of the flayed and he dropped to stand amongst them in the middle of the hall, between a woman and a boy. Her hand was on his shoulder and both were gazing from their sightless painted eyes into the other part of the house, that once had been a separate dwelling. He watched the life there – a cooking fire, some children with bowls clutched before them, staring at the large cauldron upon it, while an old woman with a ladle stirred the broth. All were silent, the only noises in both houses the snap of flame and the wood scraping the metal. Until Luck heard one more sound – a sigh, high-pitched yet somehow voluptuous. It came from behind him, at the far end of the house of the flayed, near to the other flames. He turned – and there was the god sitting before his hearth.

  A thought took Luck there. He was standing beside the chair, before a table, before the flames. And though he could not touch, he could feel – and did – the huge surge of desire that swept through him. For Peki Asarko was holding a small glass vial, tipping it carefully, pouring one drop of viscous liquid onto a small glass globe. Luck could no more smell than he could touch – but memory did it for him, and he was back for a moment at the table in Askaug’s mead hall when smoke rose from glass and he felt suddenly, instantly, ecstatically better than he ever had before in all his long lives.

  Voices brought him back. Peki’s – high, light, sibilant. And another’s, one he’d heard before, though then the man had spoken but one word. He recognised it though. Deep, measured, certain.

  ‘Two of them,’ Peki said. ‘I took them.’

  ‘You have done well.’ Luck opened his eyes, looked into the globe, saw the bald and black-eyed man he’d seen in the glass before. He spoke Midgarth’s language in a slight accent, his lips parted over his blackened teeth. ‘You kidnapped them?’

  ‘No!’ Peki giggled. ‘They came to me, fissh to my hookss.’

  ‘Came? From your town?’

  ‘No. These gods are not from the south but the west. From Askaug.’

  ‘Askaug?’ Black eyes narrowed. ‘Who are they? Their names?’

  ‘You will be pleased. One is a famous warrior, Bjorn Swiftsword. The other is his brother, Luck the Lame.’

  ‘Luck?’ The man roared the name and Peki flinched back. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Safe. I have them—’

  ‘They are not safe until they are dead. Kill them! Now!’

  ‘I will. One, at least, in the morning, by—’

  ‘No!’ Some reflected firelight flamed in the black eyes as the man leaned forward. ‘No delay! Now! Keep their heads, I will send for them.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Listen to me. This Luck is one of the very few that concern us. Most of the others – mindless killers and drunkards.’ The voice softened. ‘Obey me – and when I send for the heads I will send more of what you crave. You must be running low.’

  Peki had slumped at the commands. Now he straightened again, eyes widening. He held up the vial. ‘Yess. You see? I am. I am! Ssend, please.’

  ‘I will. You will be well rewarded. And when we triumph …’ The man looked sideways. Said something in a tongue Luck could not understand. Turned back. ‘Obey me,’ he said. ‘Go and kill them now. Swiftly!’

  Smoke swirled within the globe, the man lost to it. Slumping back, Peki fingered the small bottle. His thumb lifted to the stopper and for a moment, one delicious moment, Luck thought he was going to open and pour again. Then he shoved it into a pouch. ‘Later, later,’ he mumbled, and stood. He turned towards the hall’s end, the other room beyond. Took two steps, then stopped suddenly, stepped to the side, to place two hands on a flayed man – the black-eyed killer, Luck saw. Rubbing his fingers slowly up and down the skin, Peki muttered, ‘Swiftly? Where is the fun in that?’

  He swivelled, strode into the other room. The children scattered to the walls, crouched, bowls held before them like shields. Five guards came forward and knelt. ‘I want soup taken to the prisoners,’ he yelled at them. ‘Free the cripple’s hands, he can feed both of them. But do not leave the door open. Feed them, and lock them back in.’

  Two of the guards snatched up soup bowls, dipped them in the cauldron, then with three others turned and ran from the hall. Sm
iling, Peki lowered himself into a chair by the hearth. He spread his arms wide, and immediately children rushed forward into his embrace. He pulled a fair-haired girl onto his lap, ran his fingers up and down her back. She giggled – a sound without a hint of humour. Lightly, he pinched her skin. ‘So much softer when one is well fed, isn’t that so, little one?’ On her nod, he smiled and looked up at the old woman. ‘Feed me,’ he said.

  The guards were swift – but not as swift as Luck. Returning with a thought, sinking into himself, he accepted the bounds of his body, and the bonds upon it. These would soon be loosened. If a chance was to come, it would be when they were.

  ‘Bjorn?’

  ‘I am awake.’

  ‘But are you recovered?’

  ‘Not entirely. They beat me pretty well.’ He shifted, groaned. ‘I woke and you had … gone. Find out anything?’

  ‘Plenty. But this for now.’ From beyond the metal walls came the sounds of men. ‘Listen to me …’

  When the door was opened a few moments later, both gods had their eyes closed and their breaths coming in tortured wheezes. Bjorn lay with his head near the door as if craving air, Luck’s feet beside his brother’s face.

  The guards grabbed Luck by the legs, hauled him out, pulled him up to sitting, slapped him. He moaned, eyes blinking as if into wakefulness. The guards laughed; one slapped him again to more laughter and then untied his hands, while another crouched before him, holding the two bowls, muttering something in his own tongue. Luck shook his head, as if still dazed, so the guard put down one of the bowls, lifted a spoon, showed the actions of eating. It wasn’t hard for Luck to conjure the symptoms of nausea, the foul air of the box not much improved beyond it. He got onto his knees, letting the retches build, as the guards stepped warily back. Stood, lurched forward, made a dreadful sound – and snatched the knife from the soup guard’s waistband.

  He turned fast; Bjorn lifted his hands, the leather strings taut between the wrists. The knife was well honed and Luck sliced through the bonds. The guards ran forward.

  Too late. They were only men, and Bjorn was a god who now had a blade in his hand. Luck rolled clear to the side, putting his back to the wall, snatching up another dagger the first dying man dropped. He didn’t need it.

  None of them made a noise before they died. No shouts for aid. Luck assumed that Peki’s punishments for failing him were extreme. Perhaps that was why the last of them died as silent as the first.

  Bjorn lowered the last of the men to the floor, pulling the dagger from his heart. ‘You really are very good at that,’ said Luck, pushing himself up the wall to gain his feet.

  ‘I know.’ Bjorn wiped blood off the blade onto his sleeve. ‘As I plan to prove one more time before we leave here.’

  He walked to the door. ‘No, brother,’ Luck called, halting him. ‘I share your desire to avenge Rukka and Karn. But I saw other things when I was out of my skin. Vengeance must always wait for necessity.’

  Bjorn sighed. ‘Is that another of your famous sayings?’

  ‘It is now.’ Luck joined him. ‘For our necessity is perhaps nothing less than the saving of the world.’ He nodded to the door. ‘So we leave this place, fast and silent.’

  ‘Back to Askaug?’

  ‘No. We continue.’

  ‘How? Possess a bird and fly off this island?’

  ‘No again. You know it is never easy with a bird. Anyway, we’ll need the boat.’ He opened the door a crack, peered out. Not far away he heard that strange singing again, the piping of children’s voices. ‘Come.’

  ‘Wait! Look at this.’ Bjorn bent to one of the dead men – he had a sheath strapped to his back and in it … ‘Sever-Life,’ Bjorn whistled in wonder. ‘That’s good.’

  His brother shook his head. ‘And they call me Luck!’

  They ran to the path-head. The mists had frayed still further and the two risen moons, one waxing, one waning, shed silver and blue light upon their way. At the beach, they found their craft, and their paddles beside it. Bjorn bent, searched. ‘It’s all here,’ he said, puzzled. ‘Why have they not stripped it of everything?’

  ‘No one does anything until that black-eyed fucker commands it. Not unless they want to end up flayed and exhibited. And he had other concerns. Us.’ Luck snatched a paddle. ‘Let us—’

  A screech came from the cliff-top. ‘Find them! Find them!’ cried Peki Asarko.

  In a moment the brothers had the boat launched and powerful strokes drove them swiftly from the shore, just as men ran onto the beach behind them.

  Winds had cleared the mists entirely. Once they’d rounded the island, they could see Sarkon, the eastern star, clear in the sky, so bright it was as if it trailed a fishing line in the water towards them. They took it, followed it, while behind them came more cries and the sound of oars.

  Luck, in the rear, glanced back. Moonlight showed him at least five boats, and glimmered on spear points and swords. ‘Will they catch us?’ Bjorn yelled.

  ‘Not on the water. I’d wager our seal-skin vessel is swifter than their reed ones,’ replied Luck, dipping his oar hard, his strong left arm compensating for his weak right. ‘It may be different on the land.’

  They increased the gap between them and their pursuit, though it was hard work, with no rest. An hour, maybe more, before they saw the white foam of small waves breaking onto a beach ahead; by then Luck could no longer feel either arm.

  The boat ground onto silver sand, Bjorn leapt out, dragged it higher, peered back. ‘Still coming. How long do you think?’

  Luck pulled himself wearily from the craft. ‘Not long enough, with this.’ He slapped his shorter leg.

  ‘Do we still need the boat?’

  ‘Yes. It’s how the killer came. If we make it, we’ll need it the other side of this mountain, I think.’

  Bjorn faced forward again, staring into the forest. ‘It’s this side of the mountain that concerns me,’ he said. ‘Come on.’

  The beach was not deep and ended in trees – stubby pines, with marsh grass between them, almost as easy as sand or snow for Bjorn, his foot in the prow loop, to drag the boat along. Then the land began to slope upwards, steepening fast, and it became harder, Luck helping to lift the vessel over sharp stabs of rock. Soon enough, they hit the snow line. Easier to pull the craft, harder because the snow was softening with the spring and their legs kept sinking. While behind them the cries were getting closer.

  ‘Fuck this!’ said Bjorn, throwing the boat down. ‘We’ll have to fight.’

  ‘No, Bjorn, there are too many of them. Even for you.’

  ‘Then what, O wise one! Hide? I think they’d find us.’

  ‘No. I do not know. I—’ Luck swung his head both ways – and caught it, a whiff in the breeze. There, gone – until the breeze suddenly gusted again and hit him full force. He gagged – then grinned. ‘Smell that?’

  His brother turned, sniffed. ‘By the gods! Bear! Bear, still in its winter sleep.’

  The cries on their tail came louder. Their pursuers had reached the shore. The brothers moved sideways fast across the mountain, through a stand of birch – hunters with the hunter’s nose. In fifty strides they came to the source of the stench – a stone outcrop jutting from the mountainside forming a sort of entrance, snow piled against it. Bjorn put his hand on the rock and smiled. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  The snow gave easily to their hands. As it flew, the rancid smell intensified. The white wall suddenly gave – to reveal not one bear but two. Both growled, as startled as those who’d woken them. But the bears were sleep-groggy, and the gods desperate.

  Possession was a skill honed over centuries. Like when Luck flew in spirit, it required a moment of calm, of nothing, of not moving, of leaving. To vanish, absorb, be absorbed. A moment of greatest danger, because if the creature attacked, the god was doomed.
Perhaps he would be reborn soon. Perhaps the beast would rip his head off. But these bears were slow. They had their moment, the leaving, the joining.

  After all this time, it is always still a little strange, Luck thought, as his own body vanished, as he sank into the bear, feeling the creature’s limbs and, immediately, its intense and total hunger. It had slept for months, losing its fat. Her fat, he realised. Then, from her eyes, he saw Bjorn rise up – bigger, undoubtedly male. His – her – mate. At the beginning, the instinct of the possessed beast always pulled hardest, then was lost for a time, until it began a fight for repossession that the god, however strong, would eventually lose – in a morning, a day perhaps. For now, though, the she-bear’s will was lost. Luck felt it go, dwindling like the scream of someone falling off a cliff.

  The last voice he’d had in his head had been Freya’s, the night he left Askaug. Now Bjorn thought-spoke.

  ‘Are you well, brother? Is the body sound?’

  ‘I … I think so.’

  ‘Good. Let us go then.’

  Bjorn-as-bear got to his feet, then cried out.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Luck.

  ‘My bear. Strong in some ways. But weak in one leg. Broken, I think, just before he lay down for the winter’s sleep.’ He dragged himself from the cave, limped a few strides. ‘It’s set wrong. There will be no running up this mountain for me.’

  The cries of those who chased them were nearer now. Came from back through the birch stand, where they’d first smelled bear. Bjorn looked there, then up. ‘There’s another trail just here. Take it.’

  ‘No, I am not leaving you. We’ll fight.’

  ‘There are still too many of them, brother. Too many for two – but enough for one.’ He drew himself up on his hind legs, sniffed the air. ‘You know, in all these years, I’ve never fought men as the hunted. A first!’