"Do you think they will help?" Harald asked.
The elf shrugged, "who knows, these lands have changed so much since I was last here."
Harald sighed and looked back at Wulfric.
The big man pushed off the stone lion and said, "we best be getting down to find out then."
"And here I must leave you," Amroth said.
Harald looked at him with wide eyes, "please, we need you."
"I have gone as far as my lord Narbeth promised you," he said with tight lips and piercing eyes, "but I wish you both all the luck of the divines."
Harald cast his eyes to the ground and Wulfric looked to Amroth.
"One more favour," Wulfric said, "I need you to pass through the forest for me and take a message to the Jarl of Eyndale..."
***
Isolde lived between worlds. In one, she was slowly dying from a poison that was spreading from her neck and seeping deep into her soul. She was helpless; a lifeless body lying on the deck of a boat, floating to whatever fate had to offer. When her mind wandered in its forsaken state, she entered the second world, one of the horrific nightmares from which there seemed to be no waking.
In her nightmare world, she was always hunted by The Black Witch. Orlog would take a thousand different forms, but always the scarred tattoos would come shining out from whatever skin she donned. Isolde was being hunted, and the only chance of escape was to wake up. But now, the line between dream and reality was wavering. Was she the one dying in the boat, or the helpless girl fleeing for her life in the netherworld?
She opened her eyes and saw a blue cloudless sky above her. Her body bobbed beneath her, and she could feel a light breeze that made her wet skin cold. She had been sweating again. Erik stood above her, his face somewhere out in the distance as he steered the little boat along with the current. She didn’t need to check the wound on her neck, it burned and throbbed constantly now and she knew that it had spread up the back of her neck. She could feel the fat black veins sinking into the base of her skull.
“You’re awake,” Erik said, noticing she had stirred. “How are you feeling?”
She twisted her head to the side and cracked the bones in her neck. It felt good to release the tension, even if only for a second.
“Where are we?” she asked with a weak voice.
Erik smiled, “you know, you ask me the same question every time you wake up. We’re on the Thurso, we are not far from the city.”
She lay her head back down against the hard wooden hull, and closed her aching eyes allowing the world of nightmares to return. By the time she opened them again, she was alone in the dead of the night. Erik was gone, and she could feel the boat wasn’t moving. She tried to lift herself up but her body was too heavy. She was soaked to the bone in her own clammy sweat, and the night air froze her skin, despite the layers of furs she had on. She wanted to cry out but her head felt like it was moving. She couldn’t tell whether it was the fever or having been on the water for so long, but her eyes couldn’t find her focus.
She could hear the clack-clack-clack of iron-shod boots on wooden beams. Was she dreaming again? Faint voices, rough and manly, chatted back and forth, and the boots got closer. There was a number of them. Isolde tried to lift herself up to see again, but her arm gave out and she came crashing down into the boat and left it rocking on the spot. Laughter burst out from somewhere, and she saw a new set of shadows dance by her feet. She looked up and her eyes met rough leather boots over grey woollen breeches, a dark blue, iron-studded tunic, a red wiry beard, a flaming torch and glaring eyes set behind an iron helmet.
A smile broke out from behind the beard, and the eyes looked at someone else. Isolde wearily followed his gaze and saw the burst of blonde hair that was Erik standing next to the stranger.
“Well, Erik,” he said, “you’ve gone and done it, haven’t you, lad.”
He put a heavy hand on Erik’s shoulder and rocked him back and forth in appreciation.
“You’ll be gentle?” Erik asked.
“As gentle as need be,” the stranger replied, “the King needs her alive so she will live.”
Erik nodded and the man dropped a small leather pouch into his hand.
“Don’t go far,” the man said with an eye tight on Erik, “Hrothgar is going to want a word with you sooner or later.”
She watched Erik disappear before new faces appeared above her in the flickering light of flaming torches. They all wore the same dark blue uniform and held the same hard gaze. One jumped into the boat and began to pull Isolde up from beneath her arms. The pain shot like lightning from her head, down to her fingertips. She wanted to cry out, but she had no energy, she couldn’t move, and her head hung limply in the air as the stranger passed her up to the other men.
She could see through dazed eyes that she was on a dock. They stood on a wooden walkway and she could hear the dark water lapping underneath. Her head lolled backwards, and she saw that the river went on for a way before a cold grey wall of rock raised high out of the ground. The men began to carry her in silence and she took in everything she could see. The smell of fish and mould was overbearing, as she studied the little boats and bigger trading vessels lining the wharf.
They took her away from the water and the wooden buildings that straddled it, and began to carry her up a wide stone staircase. She could see the river below and the cliffs that jutted out in all directions. Her eyes began to wane again, and she could hear the voice of Orlog calling her from her dreams. She fought it to stay awake. She needed to know where she was, and where was Erik? They carried her through cobbled streets, and pushed past groups of men that huddled themselves around campfires. Tight wooden homes with whitewashed fronts and dark wooden foundations stood in crooked angles. Little alleys darted here and there and the dull light of candles seeped out of stained windows.
They carried her under a magnificent tower house, where the guards that carried her answered a few questions before being rushed through a black iron gate. Across a stone bridge she went, and again the witch’s voice came to her… Isolde… it sent chills up her spine. She looked up and saw the black keep towering high above. Its thin windows were mere slits in the black rock that glowed red and yellow like evil eyes. Isolde… the whisper came again as though the keep itself was calling her.
They carried her down spiralled steps of dark stone that were lit every half-turn by flickering candles. Down and down they went, the stairs branching off to rooms and corridors. But the further they went, the rarer the openings became. She lay limply in the arms of the guard carrying her, and she could feel it getting colder the further they descended. The stone walls became slick with residue, and green mildew spread itself out from the cracks between the stones. They reached the bottom of the stairs and a guard unbolted a heavy wooden door. They passed into a stubby hallway, where small wooden doors, which seemed to promise torture and misery, poked out to the left and right. They dragged her to the back of the hall, unbolted one of the doors, and threw her into the cell.
She crashed down onto the hard, wet, stone floor, and hardly had the energy to moan. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t even find the strength to push herself up. The door creaked behind her and the heavy iron lock latched closed. She could feel eyes on her in the dark, and the sound of short raspy breathing. Naked feet slapped against the wet stones and scuttled over closer to her. She felt her heart begin to hammer as rough hands reached out and touched her. They tore into her clothes and explored her body. She felt bony fingers squeezing her arms as though she was being sized up for some sick meal. Sharp nails walked up and found the wound on her shoulder. She cried out in pain as they prodded deep into the source of the black veins.
She wanted to fight back but she couldn’t even move. Another hand slid up the black of her head and cradled her there. She wanted to cry when she felt wet, warm lips begin to suck on her bruised shoulder. White light flashed across her eyes, and pain screamed out from her arm. Her very breath was ripped from h
er lungs. She could feel the hands, the lips, the breath. Her eyes widened in the dark, the hands tightened, and her back tensed up in a spasm of agony. She felt her head spin and tried to keep hold of reality but that voice was hissing her name again, it was calling her… Isolde…
CHAPTER VIII
The narrow ice-stairs seemed to have no end. Harald felt as though they had been crawling their way down for hours, and still, the valley below looked so far away. His eyes burnt from the sleepless night, and he felt the strength in his legs waning. He put his hand out to Jotunn's wall and felt it slick with frigid water. It dripped down to the icy stairs making every exhausting step deadly. To the right was the open sky, and an unfathomable drop straight down to the water below.
"Do you think Amroth will tell Jarl Sigurd?" Harald asked through a yawn and tested his weight on the next step.
"Aye," Wulfric said from behind him, "he will go, but I do wonder if Eyndale still stands."
"The Jarl would never let it fall," Harald said.
"By Throndir, I hope you're right," Wulfric said. "If this goes the way I think, then we will need the southern cities united. Only Sigurd could do that."
"Will they fight?" Harald asked edging himself lower and lower.
Wulfric snorted, "Jarl Aba is a fat little coward and it's a shame that his city is the first on Hrothgar's list. He'll either fight alone or sell Harkham to Ravenscar. Anyway, that is Sigurd's concern, we just need to work out how to get Isolde back."
They kept crawling their way down the side of the cliff and eventually made it to the shadowy floor of the valley by mid-morning. Harald looked at Wulfric and saw the man's bloodshot eyes. Neither voiced the idea to stop for rest, but Harald yearned for a moment's break. They ran along the river with the remainder of their energy. Up and down rolling hills they went, pushing through the light snow until the smoke Harald had seen from a top Jotunn came wafting from over the next valley.
By the time they made the last leg, Harald thought he would drop from fatigue. They were looking down at a small fishing village right on the river. Though Harald thought that calling it a village was a bit of an exaggeration. In reality, it was five small long-houses that looked as though the thatching would collapse in at any moment. He looked around and saw a row of half rotten boats laid out on the Thurso's stony shingle.
A round woman in a starch white dress came out the door of the house with the smoking chimney. She was red in the face with blonde hair in tight buns against her head.
"We've given everything we got, already," she said in a thick drawl, "so you best be heading along now."
"Where are your men?" Wulfric asked as he and Harald moved down to meet her.
"Out fishing, trying to get back something after you lot took all we had," she hissed.
"Who took it all?" Harald asked.
"Don't be stupid," Wulfric said to Harald, "Hrothgar would be picking these lands clean."
He looked at the rounded woman and gave her his best smile though Harald thought it looked more like a growl with all his chipped teeth.
"We're not from Ravenscar," Wulfric said, "but we are heading that way."
The woman's tense face dissolved with Wulfric's words and her eyes warmed to them.
"Why didn't you say so?" she said.
"Did you see a boat pass with a boy and girl earlier?" Harald asked.
"Aye," she said, "that was before the lads went back out, are they friends of yours?"
Wulfric murmured under his breath and said, "the girl is. We need to catch her before they reach the city."
The woman shook her head, "you'll never get there before them now. Why don't you both come in, you look exhausted."
The invitation was everything Harald had hoped for. They thanked her and found themselves in the warmth of her little house sprawling out on some hay beds. A king's quarters could not have felt more comfortable to Harald, and he found himself drifting to sleep as soon as he closed his burning eyes.
It was dark by the time he woke up, he saw Wulfric sitting at a small wooden table with the woman and four weather-beaten men. He could hear them talking about the state of the land, and came to join them in the flickering shadows from the cooking fire. His eyes still burned and his mind was exhausted but he needed to be part of the planning.
"Have a seat, young master," one of the men said.
He had short shaggy black hair and a weathered face. One eye was clouded over white but the other was as blue as the clear sky.
"Rolof's the name." He leant across the table and shook Harald's hand, "and this is Leif, Otto, Frey, and my lovely Helga, who you have already met."
Harald shook each of their hands in turn and took a seat at the table. Helga poured him a jug of honeyed mead and as he drank it, he thought nothing had ever tasted sweeter.
"Rolof thinks the city is closed and under close guard," Wulfric said in a low voice.
"I don't just think it," Rolof said, "I seen it. We got turned away only a few weeks back. They were only letting soldiers in and the odd merchant."
"Can we sneak in?" Harald asked.
Rolof shook his head and said, "only if you're a mighty fine swimmer. See, the walls are too high and besides, you got the guards on every bit of it now. You could try the river, but chances are you'd freeze before you got under that big gate that crosses the Thurso."
"There's another way, uncle," a quiet voice chimed in, it was Leif.
Aside from Harald, Leif looked to be the youngest in the room. He had a youthful face with long flowing brown hair, as light as an acorn. But his eyes were dark and darted from face to face in the room.
"I heard of a passage once," Leif said, "through the cliffs right under the tower. It leads you right in to the keep."
"Where'd you hear that nonsense?" Rolof asked.
"A dwarf told me. Said his name was Snorri. Said he helped dig it out way back before the war."
Rolof snorted and drank his mead.
"No doubt you heard this story over a few ales at Sharkey's?" Rolof said while he wiped his mouth.
Harald watched Leif's face turn red.
"Doesn't mean it's not true, though," the boy said.
Wulfric leant in over the table and asked, "did he say where in the cliff?"
Leif's eyes widened at the question, but his uncle got in before him.
"It's not a big rock there, Wulfric. Trouble is getting to it. It's in the middle of the river and the only bridges to or from are high above and guarded by the city."
"Aye," Wulfric said, "I know the city well enough, but say we did swim it. Where would we aim for?"
Rolof leant back in his chair with wide eyes that Harald thought were either from disbelief or mockery - perhaps even both.
"Go on," Rolof said to Leif, "tell them where the magic dwarf door is."
The boy shook his head, "he never said, just that it's about mid-way up."
Wulfric nodded slowly and looked back at Harald.
"Well, my lad," he said, "it looks like we have our plan."
CHAPTER IX
Isolde's heart thundered in the dark crimson caverns. Here the walls glowed as they melted, hellfire burned in pools of molten rock, and sulfuric plumes smoked up, making her sputter and choke. She could hear the demon's voice calling her, searching for her, tormenting her.
Isolde!... it hissed... come back to me my darling...
The floor beneath her shook and layers of ash shuddered and puffed into the air.
Isolde! Where are you?...
Each footstep rattled her to the core. She had to run but there was nowhere to go.
Isolde! Come into the light...
She dashed across the cavern in the desperate hope to make the rocks on the far side. The room erupted in deafening shrieks and cries and she felt the stomping following her. Hiding was no use, she had to run.
Fight, Isolde! Fight...
She ran for her life, her heart hammering in her chest as she sucked in acidic air. It burned her t
hroat and her eyes were filled with tears, but still she ran.
Come back...
She flew up rocky stairs, up and up until only empty air was beside her.
Come to me, Isolde...
The voice began to fade. The hissing warmed and her heart began to calm. She kept climbing higher and higher until her head felt faint.
You're almost there my darling, a little more...
The voice was familiar. It was low like a murmur but as smooth as honey.
"Open your eyes."
The stairs were gone. She was looking up at the stern face of Skaldi. Sweat dripped from every inch of her skin, and she could feel him cradling her like a baby in his arms. She looked up at him with and saw his broad smile and worried eyes.
"You are safe from her," he said.
It took a long time before Isolde could move. Skaldi held her tight in his arms and hummed softly under his breath. She eventually wriggled off of him and put her hand on her shoulder.
"It is still there," he said.
She cast her eyes down as she felt the wound, but it was different, the fat veins had receded. She pulled her jacket down and saw that they only spread as wide as her outstretched hand. The bruising was gone and all that was left was the outward extension of five or six slug-like veins that looked like a black star against her white skin.
"How did you do it?" she asked.
"I didn't," he replied, "I merely helped. It was you who fought it."
Isolde shook her head and felt tears forming in her eyes.
"Was it real?" she asked.
Skaldi nodded, "the dreams? Yes and no. She has infected you, but in the end, you are the one in control."
"But it feels so real," she sobbed and grabbed onto the old man.
He held her tight and said, "that is because she is fooling you. You must be strong to see what is real with your own eyes! You are always in control, Isolde. Always."
Isolde pulled away and looked Skaldi up and down. He looked wretched. His eyes were dark and sunken, he didn't smile, and even his ancient clothes looked more ragged than usual.
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