“Tea?” Ama asked as she put a black kettle over the fire place.
The three nodded in approval and Ama sat down to let the pot boil in its own time. The little old lady let a sigh of relief out as she leaned back on the chair and looked over to Skaldi.
“You never visit,” she said, “only when you need something. You’re a horrible man.”
Skaldi grumbled but was cut off when Ama looked at Isolde and Harald.
“Don’t trust this one,” she said, nodding her head back at Skaldi, “he’ll just up and disappear whenever he feels like it.”
“Ama, please,” Skaldi pleaded.
“Shush, you,” the old woman said and Isolde laughed. She had never imagined anyone could talk to Skaldi like this.
“It must have been twenty-five years since he’s come to see me. His oldest and longest friend, mind you.”
“It hasn’t been that long,” he complained.
Ama screwed her face up at him.
“Why are you here then? Hmm?”
“We need your help,” he said.
“Ha! See, I told you.”
Skaldi buried his face in his hands and the kettle began to whistle.
“That would be the chamomile,” Ama said, and she hobbled over to the kettle to pour them each a mug of the golden brew.
The drink was hot, but it warmed Isolde to the core. Ama looked at her and smiled. It was not the usual smile of pity that Isolde had grown used to as of late. But something cheekier, as though the old crone knew something that the rest of them did not.
“Right,” Ama said, “I will help the lovely young lady and her friend. But not you, Skaldi, not until you apologise.”
“Apologise for what, exactly?”
“For being a terrible friend.”
“Fine, I am sorry, Ama. You are right, time has just slipped away and I should have visited.”
Ama screwed her thin lips up to think about the apology and nodded in approval.
“Okay,” she said and sat down at the table. “So, I suppose you will want to know about this witch growing inside Isolde.”
Isolde’s jaw dropped a bit and Harald’s brow ruffled up.
“How did you know about Orlog?” Harald asked.
Ama shrugged, “I look, and I listen. If you had half a mind, you would do the same instead of asking stupid questions.”
Harald shut his mouth and Ama went on.
“Now, I can answer your questions, but there is a price. To see how things are, you must use your eyes. For me to show you, will cost just that… an eye.”
Isolde squirmed in her seat and looked at the grizzly scar running down Harald's face. She could never expect him to give up the one eye he had left. She looked over at Skaldi and the old man huffed.
“Don’t look to me,” he said slowly, “this is your destiny, I am only here to guide you.”
Isolde put her hand to her mouth in thought, and then it struck her. She silently asked her mother for forgiveness and reached down to her sword. She gripped at the Dragon’s Eye embedded in the pommel and forced it out of its steel grip. The gem swirled in clouds of citrine and vermillion and was as cool as water in her palm.
“Will this be okay?” she asked Ama.
The old crone took the gem and held it out toward the flames of her kitchen fire.
“What did you want me to answer for you?” she croaked.
“Tell me everything I need to know about Orlog. Tell me how I can defeat her.”
Ama laughed and leaned back in her creaky chair, “Orlog wasn’t always this way. I remember a time when she was beautiful. A princess who was full of hopes and dreams. But nothing in this world is permanent, and her hopes decayed. They persecuted and burned her, you know. They forced her hand and she became the very thing that they feared, the witch.”
“Who are ‘they’?” Harald asked.
“‘They’ are the people,” Ama replied with her cloudy eyes boring into the boy, “or at least they were the people. But that was a long time ago. You see, Princess Tatania, that was her mortal name, was to marry a Vroukan prince. But she was scorned for witchcraft and her own people betrayed her. They burned her alive and as her skin boiled and melted away in the flames, she begged for vengeance. Pain can make us do wicked things. The people laughed and it seemed that no one heard poor Tatania’s cry for help.
But something was listening. Something dark and powerful. As Tatania’s flesh melted and the flames left only her blackened bones, her soul drifted down to the gates of the nether. She was met by that darkness who offered her vengeance, but it came at a price. She was to be his forever more. She was to be a slave dressed up as a captain.
He had the burns of her immortal form scraped away. Then she was incised with the magic runes of his order. She was corrupted and tortured, trained and tutored in all the ways of his wickedness. That day, Tatania died and Orlog was born. Orlog, The Black Witch, Marquess of the Nether Gate, a dancer between worlds.”
“When they burnt her, was she a witch? Were the people right?” Isolde asked.
“Were they right?” Ama asked in shock, “no, they had no right. Yes, Tatania was a witch, she was famous for it, but that doesn’t mean her gift was evil. She never did harm. Not as Tatania, anyway.”
“Then why did they burn her?”
“Because, Isolde, people fear what they don’t understand!”
Isolde nodded slowly, “then why is Orlog after me?”
Ama sighed, leaned back in her chair, and looked at Skaldi.
“You never told her?” she asked.
“Never told her what?” Skaldi looked confused.
“Don’t play the fool, Skaldi. Have you told her about Heroth Nuir?”
Isolde watched the old man’s face turn white and his eyes flicker to the floor.
“What is it?” she almost screamed.
Skaldi looked up at her, “Orlog is not the only soul who can dance between worlds, Isolde. The dreams you had, they were real. Your mother was the same.”
“I can dance between worlds?” the words made no sense to her, “what does that even mean?”
“It means,” Ama cut in, “that your soul can cross between the veil of this world and the next. Perhaps even into the realm beyond that.”
“I can go to the realm of the dead?”
“The dead, the damned, the blessed, perhaps others, who can say,” she said. “This is why Orlog is hunting you. But keep in mind, that Orlog is a slave, she is only doing the bidding of her master. It is he who really wishes to have you.”
Skaldi cleared his throat, “Bezhaal?”
“Indeed,” Ama replied, “he never truly disappeared, he has always been lurking. Pulling the strings of his puppets.”
“Who is Bezhaal?” Isolde asked.
Ama spoke, “his name was first recorded by mortals in the deserts of the south. Sand dwellers, they worshipped him for a long time, he was a deity of flame. When their civilisation faded, so did his name and it was lost. But I remember his wickedness.”
“This is too much,” Isolde said. Her hands were shaking and her head felt light, “Bezhaal, Orlog, Marquees and netherworlds. I don’t understand anything. Why can’t I feel her anymore? Why is my mother burning? Why did Hrothgar rape me? Why did Valarth cut me? I need to know!”
“Because, Isolde, you are the chosen one!” Skaldi roared. “Do you not see it? You are the link between the divine world of the gods and the mortal world of humans. You are the gateway in which things can pass.”
Ama nodded in agreement and said, “Hrothgar raped you so you might birth him an heir. Valarth’s ritual has ensured that the impregnation will birth the Black Witch into the world, as a mortal. If the divine soul of Orlog can take a mortal body, she will clear a path for her lord Bezhaal to follow. As heir to the North, Orlog will take the throne and bring a new age or darkness to the world.”
Harald had been sitting in silence, but now he sat forward, “how do we stop her?”
&n
bsp; “There is no we,” Ama said, “only Isolde. The best you can do, Harald, is protect her mortal body. If we are lucky, she will save our divine souls. But for Isolde, the path is clear. She must go to Heroth Nuir, the priests there will guide her to the nether world, and she must kill Orlog in the Land of the Gods. It is the only way to destroy Orlog.”
“And Bezhaal?” Harald asked.
“Forget Bezhaal,” Ama hissed, “you cannot kill him.”
CHAPTER V
Night came on and no-one noticed. The cottage was warm and homely and the conversation deep and twisting. As far as Isolde could tell, she was something called a nether-walker, and that meant she could cross between worlds. The idea was terrifying, but maybe it meant she could still save her mother and free herself of Orlog once and for all.
“Before you leave for Heroth Nuir,” Ama said, her clouded eyes dark and drooping, “we need to remove the infant Orlog from Isolde.”
Isolde’s eyes flickered to the wound on her chest and her fingers moved to where Valarth had inserted the crystal into her.
“Yes,” Ama said, “the ruby will need to come out, but there is more. We need to cleanse you.”
Ama hobbled up out of her chair and shuffled to the far wall of her kitchen. She threw open cupboards and cursed under her breath as kitchenware went clattering in her search.
“Aha!” she called and came slowly back to the table with a small, ornate, empty bottle.
It was made from a light blue glass, with thin golden veins encasing it and an ancient cork stopper.
“Do you love her?” Ama asked Harald.
He muttered something, but Isolde couldn’t catch what he said.
Ama chuckled and thrust the bottle into Harald’s chest so that he had to take it before it fell and shattered on the ground.
“Don’t be so proud,” she said and sat back down.
“Take him to Mousa,” Ama said to Skaldi. “Fill the bottle with water from the King's Fountain and bring it back.”
“That’s a dangerous road, Ama,” Skaldi said, “it may take us some time.”
“Take your time,” she said shrugging her shoulders. “It will give me the chance to prepare young Isolde for what’s to come.”
Isolde's heart fluttered at the mention of preparation. What was to come? She let out a long yawn but couldn't tell if it was her nerves playing up or the fact that she was exhausted from being overloaded with information. She tried to cover her mouth, but the yawn was infectious and quickly caught Skaldi and then Harald. It was time for bed.
***
Early morning came on with its dewy haze. Harald shivered in the cool outside Ama's cottage, her little world was hidden in the shade of the cliffs.
"Remember," Ama said to him, "you need the water from the King's Fountain, and you need to bring it back in the vial I gave you."
Harald nodded and felt the glass bottle tucked into his side. Skaldi put his old hand on Harald's shoulder and looked at Isolde and Ama standing by the doorway of the cottage.
"Expect us back in a week," he said
Ama waved them off and hobbled back into her cottage but Isolde remained outside.
"Good luck," she said looking at Harald.
Skaldi thanked her and turned to go but Harald didn't have it in him to wish her the same. He lifted up his hand half heartedly to wave goodbye, and turned to follow Skaldi back out of Ama's world.
He climbed the stony stairs not caring to count them on the way back up, his mind was a whirlwind of guilt and rage. The waves crashed far below him and he knew how they felt. To forever be cursed to smash against the cliff and yet know that the craggy land would never be washed away. It was an endless task and he wondered if Isolde was the same.
Skaldi waited for him atop the stairs and they turned south together toward the dark towers far off in the distance. The mist had returned but wasn't as thick as it had been. They began their trek, one step at a time.
"Swona," Skaldi said, breaking the silence. "That is what they used to call that place."
Harald didn't reply, he knew Skaldi was talking about the dark towers ahead. He hoped that if the old man would give him a history lesson then he wouldn't have to explain how he was feeling. He didn't feel much like talking.
"It was once the jewel of King Halladarth. From his seat, he commanded most of these lands. Even Mousa was under his rule, did you know?"
Harald nodded and kept walking.
"But power has a way of corrupting even the most beautiful of souls," Skaldi said. "When Ravenscar was no more than the ancient rock fortress of Jarl Orin, the two great powers went to war. I can't remember who actually started it, but the result no one could forget. Those barrows... the Barrow Mors... they are all that remains of Halladarth's empire."
"You told us the barrows were empty," Harald said disinterestedly.
"Empty of the original owners, yes," Skaldi replied. "The Draugrs, or wrights, went wandering sometime ago. It was if they were heeding an ancient call. Now they wander blindly through the Silent Hills."
Eventually, Skaldi stopped talking and the pair walked on in silence. The dark towers of Swona were getting closer, but Harald didn't care much. He felt numb inside. He felt betrayed still and knew that it was stupid to hold onto the feelings he had for Isolde, yet he couldn't let them slip away either.
"She is young," Skaldi said as if he had been reading Harald's mind. "Forgive her and let her have a second chance."
"Why?" Harald snapped, "she made her choice."
"We all make poor decisions from time to time, Harald. But that does not mean we have to live by them forever. There is no wisdom in living in regret for the rest of your days. You make a mistake, acknowledge it, fix it, and try not to make it again."
Harald sighed.
"She made a choice," Harald said again, "she chose Erik over me. It is not my fault that she chose wrong."
"No, it's not your fault," Skaldi agreed, "but that was her decision to make. It was her mistake to learn from. These things have given you your own decisions to make. And if you ask me, I would say you are making mistakes of your own right now."
"By not forgiving?"
"By not moving on."
A scream cut Skaldi off and an arrow hissed past Harald's ear.
"Not one step closer!" a rough voice cried out.
Harald and Skaldi dived to the ground together and scurried over to some low rocks in the long grass. Neither had noticed how close to the towers they had come. Another arrow skimmed the rock and shafted itself deep into the soil between them. Skaldi plucked it out and studied it with a creased brow.
"Goblins?" Harald asked with wide eyes.
"No," Skaldi said, "this is a crossbow bolt... from a dwarf."
CHAPTER VI
Isolde walked back inside and sighed deeply as she sat back at Ama’s table. The old woman was brewing another pot of chamomile and clucked her tongue at Isolde.
“You’re a woman,” she said, “you’re strong.”
Isolde slid deeper into the wooden chair and slumped her shoulders forward.
“I don’t feel strong,” she said.
“No?” Ama said as she came to the table with two mugs. “Well, we will see.”
The golden brew was warm and Isolde drank the savoury liquid deeply. It tasted good and felt rejuvenating.
“You worry about the boy?” Ama asked as she twirled her finger around the rim of her mug.
“I hurt him,” Isolde answered.
Ama laughed. “You’re young, he’s young. You will both be stronger for it.”
Isolde shook her head.
“You think I'm a liar?” Ama asked as though she were insulted.
“How can you know everything?” Isolde asked with her eyes lost in the depths of the tea.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Ama answered, “I suppose it is because I have seen everything and been almost everywhere. When you’re as old as me, you might know a thing or two, yourself. Anyway, the boys are gon
e and now we can have some fun. Finish your drink.”
Isolde followed the crooked old woman back outside. The long shadows cast by the cliffs still shrouded the land in darkness. It was cold here on the cliffy platform, the wind whistled in off the sea and the taste of salt was heavy on the air. But Isolde still thought it was beautiful here. The grass was deep olive-green and grew thickly from the black mud beneath. When she walked, she felt her feet sink into it slightly. They passed the gnarled old trees whose twisted trunks looked as though they had spent centuries battling against the sea breeze.
Ama led her back toward the stony steps from which they had arrived into her world. The old woman hobbled as she moved, her back arched over as though the bones in her spine had fused together long ago. Isolde watched her, every step was carefully chosen and no movement wasted. She supposed it was necessary to pre-plan these things when you were that old. One false slip and she might break a hip or a leg, and out here that would surely mean death.
“Stop dawdling,” Ama said without looking back.
Isolde hurried her steps and caught up with Ama as she stopped at the base of the stone stairs.
“You have to fight Orlog,” Ama said, “let’s see how you go with goblins first.”
She clicked her fingers and the host of greenskins she had made disappear suddenly popped back into their places. Isolde felt her heart stop and heard the old woman say now... or maybe it was go… it didn't matter. The host of goblins were flying down the steps right at her. Their needle teeth chattering and shrieking as they waved iron-tipped spears and rusted scimitars. She could hear their iron-shod boots clicking on the stone steps as they raced down.
Too many!... There are too many!...
Her hand ripped out the steel broadsword from its scabbard. The weight felt wrong without the Dragon’s Eye jewel and she swung the blade hesitantly to come to terms with it. An arrow screamed through the air and whistled past Isolde’s golden hair. She braced herself at the rushing flood and the first beast pounced. It must have been a leap from five steps away and she swatted the spear aside and let the goblin sail into the ground behind her. A second and third followed suit and she felt her arm shudder as her sword met the blades on their way down.
The Blind Seer (Isolde Saga Book 3) Page 3
