The Alma have them. Odin help them, the Alma have them.
One of the bodies surprised him by letting out a groan of pain. Tor ran to the man’s side. When he bent he was amazed that the man still lived. He had been opened from groin to chest, and his guts spilled over onto the ice where they had already started to freeze.
“What happened here,” Tor asked.
“Snowbeasts,” the man said, his voice barely a whisper. “Surprised us.”
He coughed, and grabbed at Tor’s arm, squeezing until pain receded enough that he was once more able to speak.
“Some of us fought. Killed one myself. Cut its balls off,” he said, and tried to laugh but only brought himself more pain.
“Kai,” the man whispered.
“What about Kai?”
The man’s eyes went cold as flint.
“Coward,” he managed to say. “Surrendered.”
Surrender? Not even Kai would stoop so low.
Tor would have asked more, but the man’s eyelids fluttered, the eyes underneath rolling up in their sockets until only white showed and the Viking fell too deep in shock and pain to speak. All Tor could do was grasp his hand and hold it until the grip gave out and the Viking’s head lolled forward on his chest.
Tor stood head bowed, and asked the God’s favour in granting the Viking admittance to Valhalla. But he had no time for the proper ceremony. A trail of blood spots led away to the north, heading up the length of the glacier to the high peaks.
Tor followed at a run.
30
Skald kept his eyes tightly closed. The beast climbed up a steep incline and, despite the fact it had Skald cradled in its arm, it moved fast and fleet of foot, finding holds instinctively and clambering up the cliff like a squirrel going up a tree.
Skald only opened his eyes when the sense of motion slowed, and the breeze that had been constantly on his face for many minutes slackened and died away.
At first he thought that night had fallen again, but as his eyes adjusted he realised he was being carried deep down into a cave. By turning and stretching his neck he could see the cave mouth, and blue sky beyond, receding quickly away from them.
A few seconds later the air cleared again and he once more felt a breeze on his face, but this one was slightly warm, and smelled, a smell he was getting to know. It smelled of Alma.
It wasn’t quite dark here and light, soft, almost dusty, snowflakes filtered through from somewhere high above. The cave had opened out to a wide cavern and even from his limited viewpoint Skald saw that they walked among high buildings carved deep into the stone walls, turrets, windows and staircases speaking of an abode of men.
Or giants.
Pale eyes watched their passage, many pairs of them, back in the shadows in the buildings.
Finally the beast stopped. It dropped Skald to the ground, and he was surprised not to hit rock, but a carpet of dried moss and ferns. It took him long seconds to get his bearings. He had got accustomed to travelling in that long loping gait and his vision swam slightly, still keeping time with the rhythm of the beast’s stride. He knew from experience on the longboats after a spell in rough seas that it would take hours for that to settle.
His legs wobbled, not believing they were on solid ground, and the left one refused to take his weight at first. He had to lock it out at the knee to stand upright.
When he finally felt stable and looked round he nearly fell back to the moss.
He had been dropped on a high flat platform with a view down over the length of the cavern. The buildings and streets were much more extensive than he had previously imagined; high vaulted edifices of grey, almost black stone curving away into the gloom above and burrowing down into darkness far below. Several had crumbled, piles of stone at their base attesting to their ages old ruination, but enough remained for Skald to see the splendour there had once been.
But all glory was long since passed. An aura of decrepitude hung over the stones. Where once Gods may have walked this cavern, the streets were now given over to moss and fern, rubble and dust. And amid the rubble walked the Alma -- not as many as had been shown to him in the wyrd -- but more than enough to send a creeping fear up his spine.
Now that his eyes had become fully adjusted to the dim light he saw high piles of dried fern and moss perched on the rooftops of some of the buildings.
Nests. They make nests in high places.
Something moved behind him, a rustling amid the dry vegetation, and Skald suddenly realised where he was.
And I am in one of them.
He turned, and came face to face with an Alma.
It studied him curiously while he studied it.
This one was older than the others he’d seen -- much older. It sat on its haunches on a thick bed of ferns, and its body looked too large and corpulent to be able to stand for any length of time. Its chest was broad but somehow sunken and the fur, which on the rest had been white and sleek, was straggly and silvery-grey, with livid pink patches of skin showing through in thinner parts. Its whole face was almost black, wrinkled like tanned leather -- large, round and flat. Heavy lids hung half closed over white eyes sitting in shadow under heavy brows.
The large male that had carried Skald here stood to one side, head down and turned away from the old one.
It is showing respect. Respect for an elder?
Or respect for a leader?
Behind the old male a much smaller female groomed the thinning fur, occasionally picking a flea or mite from the body and crushing it between surprisingly flexible fingers. Something moved in the old one’s lap. A small, white bundle of fur jumped away at the sight of Skald and hid between the legs of the female, pink eyes staring in fear at this new thing that had wakened it.
Skald watched the old male warily. He seemed to be in no immediate danger. The Alma still studied him, looking straight into his eyes. It reminded Skald of the way Per used to look at the boys when they were trying to hide some wrongdoing. Just as he could never stand under the Viking’s stare, so it proved with the Alma. Skald broke his gaze first and looked away.
He considered running. He looked over the old beast’s head, searching for an escape route, no matter how infeasible he knew the idea to be. He peered into the shadows at the far end of the cavern. It was dark there, but somehow he knew there was a presence there. The wyrd kicked in, not completely, just enough to overlay what he was seeing with an earlier vision.
Two columns of black stone dominate the far end of the cavern. Behind them, seemingly carved straight into the rock wall, sits a massive plinth, on which lies a giant effigy of a bound man, mouth wide open, screaming for eternity. Alma, dozens of them, carry screaming Viking through the chamber and sling their bodies onto the plinth. They tear open the still living bodies, coolly methodically, disembowelling tearing. Blood splatters on and around the plinth -- but most runs down the runnels towards the statue. And where the blood hits it, the stone begins to change, lightening in colour, softening, as it takes on texture, soaking up the blood, drinking it in.
The wyrd left him, and now he was merely looking at the darkness at the far end of the cavern. Two tall columns of black stone rose up into the gloom high above.
Skald could not see what lay behind them in the shadows.
But I know he is there.
Varni is there.
As the wyrd left Skald the old Alma was still looking in his eyes. It drew back its lips and hooted, laughing. It dragged itself to its feet on stunted legs and waddled grotesquely towards Skald.
He had nowhere to go, trapped by a sheer drop at his back. He stood as the beast reached out a hand, flinched as it touched the top of his head. The beast turned Skald’s face so that once more they looked into each other’s eyes.
Together, they fell into the wyrd.
31
The sun had started to set when Tor finally walked off the glacier and stood looking up at the almost sheer cliff above him. A few drops of blood on the snow were al
l that signified he was still on the right track.
But it is enough.
A snell wind blew across the face of the cliff, and from where he stood he could see few places that he might rest on the ascent. He felt as tired as he had ever been in his life, every muscle aching. He struggled even to hold on to the backpack, and knew there was no possibility he would make it even ten yards up the cliff without rest.
He walked along the foot of the cliff searching for a place to hide from the worst of the wind and found it minutes later, an overhang that wasn’t deep enough to call a cave, but was big enough for him to crawl inside and sit upright. He arranged his cloak so that the bulk of it was underneath him, protecting him as much as it could from the cold. He jammed his body into a corner and tried to relax. The efforts of the day started to take their toll. His head lolled on his chest and he closed his eyes, ready to let the dreams come.
But even in his weariness, his thoughts would not let him sleep. His mind was full of fire and blood. He saw himself thrust Per’s sword again, and again into the bodies of the Alma. He saw his sword cleave an Alma’s skull. He smelled again the acrid stench as their fur burned. He heard the screams, of Alma, and of men. And always he came back to the one thing that had almost taken his courage from him.
An Alma looms over Petr Axelsson. It opens its mouth wide and clamps its teeth into the boy’s face and skull, one tooth going through the lad’s cheek like a knife into an apple. It bites down and the head caves in, blood and brains and bone running down the Alma’s chest as it sucks the life from the boy.
That could be Skald. It might already be Skald.
He allowed himself an hour of rest before he resigned himself to the fact that sleep would not come. He still felt tired, but his muscles were now stiff rather than sore, and he knew from experience that they would loosen as soon as he started to exert himself again.
He was not worried about the lack of sleep – he had often spent several nights in a row without resting when hunting, whether for wolf or bear, and he knew his body’s limits. He was getting close to them. But he could go on for some time yet.
And more still if it means I might rescue Orjan
It was full dark when he crawled out of his refuge, wincing at the bite of the wind against his face. The full moon lit the cliff in sharp relief, and just above his head he could see shadows marking cracks where he might make his first handhold. He tied Skald’s staff to his shoulder bag. He hung the bag across both shoulders so that the weight was even distributed across his back and tentatively started his ascent.
The early stages went easier than he could have hoped. When he looked down after only ten minutes climbing, he had left the ice plain far below.
He found a ledge where he could get both feet on at once. The wind tried to pluck at his body, wanting to dash him away to the ground below. Tor leaned his body in against the cliff face; cheek pressed against the cold rock, and rested his arm muscles, letting some of the tension drain out of them. He stayed there for five minutes until he felt ready for the next step.
He had just started to raise his hands to feel for a hold when a rattle of pebbles came down from above and brushed his cheek.
He looked up.
An Alma was coming down the cliff, swinging from handhold to handhold as easily as it would walk across a meadow. It looked down and saw that Tor had noticed it.
It roared its defiance. The noise rang off the cliff face like a bell.
The beast let go of its last hold.
It dropped like a stone, heading straight down on top of him.
32
It was daylight in the wyrd, and all was deathly quiet.
The ancient Alma held Skald’s hand as they walked between two titanic black pillars and stood in front of a giant lying bound on the huge pedestal. This was no statue. For the first time Skald realised that Varni was not just a giant.
He was not of human form.
He was an Alma – of huge proportions, a thirty-foot beast, and he was bound tight to the stone by cords thicker than Skald’s good leg.
Varni.
The giant’s eyes opened. Pale, milky white, they looked straight at Skald. It opened its mouth, showing huge yellow teeth as long as Skald’s forearm, and roared. Raging, the giant thrashed against its bonds.
I know that rage.
I have seen it, in the beasts.
I have felt it, in myself.
Like the Alma, Skald too had taken something from the Sleeping God.
And now the God took something from him. It looked into his mind, into the wyrd, and drew out something that Skald had seen earlier.
Alma, dozens of them, carried screaming Viking through the chamber and slung their bodies onto the plinth. They tore open the still living bodies, coolly methodically, disembowelling tearing. Blood splattered on and around the plinth…but most ran down the runnels towards the statue. And where the blood hit it, the stone began to change, lightening in colour, softening, as it took on the texture of hair and flesh, soaking up the blood, drinking it in.
Then came a roar.
White turned red as the drums beat a word into his skull.
Doom.
The old Alma by Skald’s side hooted, laughing, and the God joined in, the laughter echoing up through the cavern and dislodging snow to fall like silver dust around them.
Skald came out of the wyrd with tears running down his cheeks.
Now he knows what needs to be done.
And finally Skald realised what the wyrd had been showing him this past month and more.
If there is doom here, I brought it with me.
There was a commotion across the cavern. Alma called and hooted, and the old beast beside Skald called back excitedly.
Skald looked down.
It was dark in the cave now, but there was enough light to see a group of snow-white Alma herd a party of around a dozen unarmed Viking through the streets.
The old Alma slapped the ground hard with his palms, drumming out a rhythm, and the Alma below chanted in time as they marched the Viking through the streets. Soon they were almost out of view and Skald had to lean perilously close to the edge of the drop to catch sight of them.
I have to know.
Is he there?
Is Tor there?
One of the Viking wore a tattered, bloodied, but instantly recognisable wolf cloak.
“Tor,” Skald called.
But it was Kai who looked up. There was no recognition in the man’s eyes, just a dull resignation as he trudged with the others out of Skald’s view. Skald started to walk forward, hoping to find a way off the nest, but the old Alma pushed him gently back to his original place. The tall male who had brought Skald here looked on, with an expression that Skald immediately recognised.
He’d seen it often enough in the Great Hall in Ormsdale.
Tor’s pet they had called him there. Now it looked like the old Alma had claimed him, and he was not going to be allowed to leave.
33
Tor leaped sideways’ grabbing for a handhold that looked barely large enough for his fingertips. His fingers gripped, then suddenly had to take his whole weight as his feet slipped off the edge. His shoulder muscles took the strain, complaining at the effort on already bruised muscles. He swung, almost falling, as the beast tumbled level with him. It threw out a hand and raked talons down Tor’s shin, digging through the breeks and bringing a sharp pain that caused him to scream in agony.
Then the beast was past. Somewhere below he heard it scrambling for purchase on the rock.
Tor looked for a handhold that would get him moving upwards quickly, but there was nothing immediately in sight. Straining, he swung himself onto the narrow ledge he’d been on before. This time he had his back to the cliff and was able to look down.
The beast was twenty yards below. It had managed to halt its descent and was even now starting to come back towards Tor, roaring as it came.
Tor almost overbalanced as he drew t
he sword from his belt, and had to spend valuable seconds shifting the weight of the shoulder bag to stop it toppling him over.
By that time the beast was almost at his feet. Tor bent to get a sword stroke at it, and once more his balance was compromised. He teetered precariously as he swung.
The sword took the beast across the knuckles of one hand, raising a bloody welt. The beast stopped, a foot below Tor’s feet, its eyes fixed on the weapon.
It roared again, and Tor saw all the way down its throat.
But it came no further towards him, staying just out of reach of the tip of the sword. Tor leaned down and swung again. The beast pulled back its lips and smiled as the weapon swished past, an inch from where it gripped the rock face.
Tor squirmed and, with his left hand, tried to free Skald’s staff from where he’d tied it to the bag. His knot-work had been too good. The staff was bound tight to the handle of the bag. But just feeling the weight of the bag gave him another idea.
The beast watched warily as Tor eased the bag off his shoulders.
Tor nearly lost his balance twice, and once, when he’d taken his eye off the beast, it leapt forward in an attack.
He barely managed to fend it off with a swing of the sword. It was a lucky stroke, but it opened the Alma’s cheek. It retreated back to its handhold beneath him, and this time when it smiled it was a lopsided thing, showing the yellow teeth all the way back to near its ear on the left hand side.
With much twisting and slow careful movements, Tor finally managed to free the bag. Holding one end of the staff he swung the other in a high arc. With the weight of the hammer inside aiding it, he brought the bag round to club the side of the Alma’s head. The blow shifted the beast’s centre of balance. Tor roared as it lost its handhold and started to fall. But his own centre of balance was far from secure, and when the bag kept swinging it pulled him to one side so that his feet came off the ledge. He tried to jam his sword into the rock, looking for a crack but he found none.
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