“I have something for you,” he said, holding an object up between his thumb and forefinger. “Hauk made me swear to bring this back to you if he couldn’t.”
Sväla managed to raise her head for a better look and saw that it was Hauk’s wedding ring. “It can’t be,” she croaked, looking down at her bloody hand. “I already have it.”
Valdür followed her gaze and shook his head in confusion. He plucked the other ring from her hand and examined it in the torchlight. “This isn’t Hauk’s,” he said, tossing it to the ground. “I took the real one from his dead hand.”
Anger flooded Sväla’s trembling limbs and she pulled herself into a sitting position. She snatched the real wedding ring from Valdür’s hand and clutched it to her breast. “It was a trick,” she gasped, amazed at how easily she had been fooled. She looked around the mead hall through tearful eyes. The men crowded round her litter were covered in fresh scars and odd, serpentine blisters. Sväla recognised all of them. They were her husband’s most trusted warriors. The last time she saw them they had been stiff-necked and proud, but now their shoulders were hunched by defeat and their eyes were blank with grief.
Beyond them, she saw some of the tribesmen who had ridiculed her vigil. A group of them were huddled around the huge open fire on one side of the hall, locked in a fierce debate. Several of them were brandishing their axes and hurling insults at each other, and every now and then, one of them would wave in her direction. It was hard to see them clearly through the smoke, but she saw that the figure at the heart of the scrum wore a wolf skin over his head. “Ungaur,” she said, guessing immediately who had told the girl to lie. Her anger grew. “He tricked me,” she said, glaring at the shaman’s burly silhouette.
Valdür raised a finger to his mouth. “It’s not wise to accuse Ungaur the Blessed,” he whispered, “unless you wish to find yourself strapped to an altar.”
“He wouldn’t dare,” gasped Sväla, but as she looked again she noticed a glint of metal in the shaman’s hands. As he whispered urgently to the men nearest to him, he waved it in her direction. It was a curved sacrificial knife, scored with runes. She had seen him use it many times before, to brutal effect.
Valdür leant closer and gripped her shoulders. “Hauk’s dead,” he hissed. “You’re no longer the chieftain’s wife.” He leant even closer and whispered in her ear. “Ungaur’s trying to convince the elders that he should become the next chieftain and I’m not sure they’ll argue the point for long. Then his only obstacle is you.”
“How can a shaman become a chieftain?” cried Sväla.
Valdür grimaced and looked back over his shoulder. “He’s using the curse as an excuse. He says that the Wolf has spoken to him and that we will only be forgiven if we allow him to lead the tribe.”
At the sound of Sväla’s question, the shaman had begun striding across the hall towards them, baring his mouthful of black spines. When he saw that Sväla was awake, and clutching the real wedding ring, he paused and began speaking urgently to the other tribesmen. The argument erupted once more.
“We’ve little time,” Valdür said, with a note of urgency in his voice. “Ungaur had convinced the elders that you wouldn’t recover. He told them that the best way you could serve the tribe was by offering your body in penance for your husband’s failure.” He kept his voice to a whisper. “You must try and rise from your bed. Prove him wrong. There’s still a little love left for you in this tribe and not everyone is convinced by Ungaur’s blood lust.” He waved to the small, despondent group of warriors huddled around them. “Hauk’s men would follow you to the ends of the earth if you asked them to.”
Sväla dropped back onto her litter. “What can I do? I can’t deny that we’re cursed. Without Hauk, what option is there, other than Ungaur’s useless sacrifices?”
Valdür frowned. “I’m not sure,” he muttered. “But your husband believed there must be some other answer. If only we knew why we are cursed, maybe we could find .mother way to appease Völtar. I think you could lead us to the truth, Sväla.” He peered intently at her. “Hauk said that Ungaur knows more than he chooses to reveal. He died believing that the Fallen could shake off this curse and rise again. Would you abandon everything he fought for?”
Sväla felt the truth of Valdür’s words, as clearly as the cool metal of the ring she was holding against her chest. “You’re right. I can’t fail him.” She gripped Valdür’s arm. “Not again.”
She looked past him into the gloomy shadows and saw that her dreams were still painted over the top of the real world. Many of the scenes were playing themselves out over and over again, as though urging her to realise their significance. Above it all, a pair of small, green eyes stared down at her from a nest of lined skin. “Ürsüla,” she gasped, remembering the old woman’s name. She dragged herself to her feet and stood swaying before the tribesmen. “Take me to the witch.”
CHAPTER SIX
As the baron trailed after Sigvald, his eyes rolled in their darkened sockets, unable to fathom the stream of surreal images that assailed them. After leaving the Empyreal Dome they entered a huge arched glasshouse. It ran along one whole wing of the palace—undulating like a snake and crowded with unnatural life.
They stepped inside and the baron immediately stumbled back against the steamy glass. “So hot,” he gasped, looking up at a thick canopy of leaves. The creaking plants that towered above him were all bright white. There was not a trace of greenery anywhere in the whole garden. The anaemic plants seemed like an extension of the endless moonlight. “How can they live, without sunlight?” he asked.
Sigvald looked up at the crush of white leaves. “You must stop thinking like a man,” he said. “You’re more than that now.” He waved at the pale trunks. “We call this the Ice Garden.” He pulled aside a leaf as big as a horse and nodded at the shadows behind. “The plants here thrive on a different kind of food than those you’re used to.”
Schüler peered into the undergrowth and saw a flash of colour in the shadows. “Is that a flower?” he asked, stepping closer. As he neared the colour, the baron saw that there was a pile of bodies beneath the leaves—a mound of men and women, dressed in gaudy, flamboyant robes. He edged closer, horrified. “Are they dead? Do the plants eat them?”
“Nothing so vulgar as that,” replied the prince with a disapproving smile. “The plants are simply the fruit of their dreams.”
The baron crouched next to the bodies and saw that the prince was telling the truth: the colourful figures weren’t dead, they were simply fast asleep. He could see their chests rising and falling slowly as they sprawled over the pale, sweaty leaves. They were completely penned in by a mass of roots and leaves, but the beatific smiles on their faces made it clear they were in no discomfort. As he edged closer, however, the baron groaned in dismay. The bodies had obviously lain undisturbed for months, if not years. Their faces were as gaunt as his and their limbs had grown as pale and thin as the tendrils that entwined them. As he got closer, the baron realised that the bodies were sighing and moaning with ecstasy—utterly oblivious to the fact that some of the tendrils had slid beneath their skin and were snaking slowly up towards their brains. The baron recoiled—rushing back out from beneath the huge leaves and onto the path.
“Who are they?” he cried, backing away with a look of disgust.
“Dreamers,” replied the prince, looking at the pile of bodies with obvious pride. “Artists, poets, architects. People who have spent their whole lives trying to pursue their dreams but found their ambition blocked at every turn by petty concerns. Here they are free to follow their thoughts.” He waved up at the towering white plants. “And while they slumber, their ideas blossom and grow into this wonderful creation, this dazzling fecundity.”
The baron looked again at the plants and saw that they were formed into the most bizarre shapes: castles and fantastic beasts teetered over him, all sculpted from the ivory leaves. Then he grimaced again. “But their bodies are wasting away.”<
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“What of it?” snapped Sigvald. He waved up at the towering plants. “Look what they have created! How wonderful to think that such beauty could stem from such insignificance.” He stepped closer to the baron and gripped his arm. “Think beyond the confines of your flesh, Schüler. Think beyond your meagre lifespan. Think of the endless pleasures your mind could devise, if it were set free.”
The baron looked up from the wasted poets to the incredible structures their dreams had painted. He gave a grudging nod of respect.
Sigvald grinned and dragged him along the winding path that led through the middle of the glasshouse. “This is nothing though. Nothing! Just wait. There’s so much more to see.”
They re-entered the palace and went into a long, high-ceilinged gallery that was clearly no longer in use. Hundreds of weapons lined the walls and suits of armour stood beneath them in silent readiness. Every single blade was rusted and sheathed in dust but Sigvald strode onwards, blind to the decay that was slowly destroying his home.
As soon as Oddrún closed the door on the glasshouse, the baron paused and scowled. “What’s that?” he cried, reaching for his absent sword.
Dozens of voices were calling out in pain and begging for mercy. The noise was coming from behind a door at the far end of the gallery.
Sigvald strode towards the door, seemingly oblivious to the awful screams.
“My lord,” slurred Oddrún, nodding towards the white-faced baron. “Perhaps the surgeries could wait for now?”
Sigvald looked back with a confused expression on his face. “What do you mean? I’m sure—”
Before the prince could finish, the door flew open and a pair of men burst into the armoury.
The baron immediately recognised the sneering brute who had introduced him to Sigvald. “Víga-Barói,” he whispered, looking suddenly ashamed. The knight had replaced his plum-coloured armour with a leather apron, but no one could forget a face filled with such malice. His apron was covered in stains and hung with a gruesome selection of tools: pliers, needles and sickle-shaped knives, all of them dark with dried blood. The man trailing behind him also wore a filthy apron and carried his own collection of cruel-looking implements.
Something about Víga-Barói’s follower made the baron peer at him in confusion. “A monk?” he whispered in disbelief. The man’s head was tonsured and he was covered in religious icons: hammers and flaming comets adorned the hooded robe beneath his apron. There was no sign of religious conviction in his eyes though. He looked like a sleepwalker. As he shuffled after the knight, his face was slack and expressionless. When he came to a halt a few feet away, Baron Schüler noticed that the blood-splattered man had a single thin scar up one side of his throat.
“Prince Sigvald,” said the knight, dropping to one knee. “How delightful. You visit us so rarely these days.” He rose to his feet and waved through the doorway. “Have you come to join in? We’re making great progress with the new subjects. Hazül has recently developed some techniques that I think you’ll find quite diverting.”
Sigvald’s reply was drowned out by a chorus of desperate screams.
“Excuse me, your majesty,” said the knight, closing the door to muffle the sounds.
“It will have to wait, I’m afraid,” said the prince, with obvious disappointment. He gestured to Baron Schüler. “I’m showing our guest around the palace.”
“Ah, of course.” Víga-Barói looked over at the baron with undisguised scorn, but when he spoke, his voice was silky and low. “We’re so glad to have you amongst us, baron.” He ran a finger over one of his bloodstained tools. “I’m looking forward to making your acquaintance more fully.” He let the words hang in the air for a few seconds, then turned back to Sigvald and gestured to the door. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to show the baron around our operating theatres?”
Sigvald shook his head. “Not today, Víga-Barói. Perhaps another time.” He smiled. “Did you receive my message?”
The knight bowed again. “Indeed. The banquet. We’re all thrilled to learn what your surprise will be.”
Sigvald flushed with pride as he returned the bow. “I think you’ll be impressed.”
Víga-Barói tried to turn his frozen sneer into a smile. “And is it true that the princess will also be attending?”
“Of course,” replied Sigvald, sounding a little irritated. “Why not? I want everyone to see my new creation. My wife included.”
The knight looked over at Baron Schüler with an indecipherable expression on his scarred face. “Very good, prince.”
They moved on, but after speaking to Víga-Barói, Sigvald seemed to lose interest in the tour. They hurried through a series of other, equally wonderful chambers: vast, gloomy amphitheatres, dusty art galleries and raucous, neglected menageries, but it was clear that the prince’s mind was elsewhere. The mention of the banquet had filled him with excitement and, as the baron trailed after him, he counted off guests on his fingertips and muttered under his breath. Finally, with a hurried bow, he returned Schüler to his chambers. “Oddrún will supply you with anything you need,” he said, ushering the baron back into the bedchamber. “It’s probably best if you remain here though, until you’re called for.” He laughed. “The palace can be a little mischievous.” He clutched the baron’s hand and kissed it, his handsome face glowing with excitement. “Tonight’s feast will be like nothing you have ever dreamt of, Schüler.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The going was slow. The survivors of Hauk’s raiding party were exhausted and filled with despair. Only Valdür’s barked commands kept them on their feet as they trudged wearily through the dewy grass. Up ahead of them, Sväla clung to Valdür’s arm. Her head was still full of bewildering images and her limbs were weak with fever. As they marched though, her certainty was growing. Hauk had always insisted that there must be a reason for the tribe’s curse and she knew now that it was up to her to find it. Her gaunt face was set in a determined frown as she eyed the horizon. “I think Völtar answered me,” she said, turning to the old warrior at her side.
Valdür paused and allowed her to catch her breath. They had almost reached the barren foothills the witch called home. “What do you mean?”
She grimaced as she looked back at a single, morose straggler, trailing behind the other men. It was Svärd, her son. They had not spoken since their harsh words when Sväla first awoke. “When I saw that the sacred fire was out, I called on Völtar for aid.” She looked up at the vast Norscan sky. “And now my mind is full of these awful visions. I think he’s trying to guide me.” She turned to Valdür. Her voice was calm, but her eyes were raw from crying. “Or do you think I’ve lost my reason?”
Valdür frowned and leant towards her. “Grief can do strange things to a person.” He nodded at the approaching tribesmen. “Perhaps you should keep this to yourself for the time being.”
She nodded back and looked down at her left hand. She now wore two wedding rings. Hauk’s was too large for her finger, so she had knotted a piece of black cloth around the two of them, binding them together. “Hauk never believed in Ungaur. Sacrifice is one thing, but to give away our strongest and youngest is suicide.” She took a deep breath and began walking again. “There has to be another way to lift this curse. We must have become the Fallen for a reason. It was not always this way.”
Valdür nodded. “I agree, but what help do you expect from Ürsüla? Völtar has reserved a special curse for her. Her reason is definitely lost. From what I’ve heard, she spends most of her time talking to the dirt.”
Sväla shook her head. “But it’s her face I see most of all. She hangs over everything. I know the stories, but who could lead such an existence without becoming a little mad? According to Ungaur, she has one foot in the mortal realm and another in the afterlife. Surely she must know something about our past and our curse?” She shrugged and looked at Valdür. “Anyway, if she can’t help, then I suppose I’ll have my answer. I’m just as deluded as she is. Maybe
I can talk to the dirt too.”
The sun was reaching its zenith as they approached the witch’s hut. The harsh sunlight made the hovel look all the more pathetic. It was a festering heap, constructed of mud, animal hides, dung and flies. As the tribesmen approached they raised their hands to their noses and groaned at the stink.
“The witch is obviously dead,” called Svärd as he climbed up towards them and saw the state of the hovel. He glared at his mother. “Who would live in that? We may as well leave. You’re wasting our time.”
Sväla flinched from her son’s glare but felt all the more determined to prove him wrong. She realised that she had already watched this scene. One of the visions swirling round her head showed her entering the hut and finding the old witch alive, surrounded by grotesque, misshapen figures. “She lives,” she called back, loud enough for all the tribesmen to hear. They looked from her to her son and then to the ruined hut, and were clearly unconvinced. As she studied their faces, Sväla realised that they were all afraid.
“Take a look,” said Valdür, indicating that Sväla should enter the hut.
Sväla saw that even he was afraid and realised that she would have to go alone. She hesitated on the threshold for a moment, remembering all the strange stories she had heard about the woman, then she pulled aside some of the animal skins and stepped into the gloomy hut. No sunlight followed her in and for a few seconds she was utterly blind. “Ürsüla?” she whispered, peering into the thick, smoky darkness. “Are you there?” There was no reply, but Sväla thought she heard a noise from somewhere further inside; it sounded like a knife chopping into something soft. As she edged slowly forward, her eyes began to grow accustomed to the gloom and Sväla realised that she was not alone. She let out a small gasp as she saw dozens of figures standing silently in the dark, watching her. She remembered the hideous shapes she had seen in her premonition. “Hello?” she called out, suppressing the urge to flee.
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