She fell quiet for a moment and glanced nervously at Garún, who nodded encouragingly to her. They’d talked about this so many times. There were many humans in the crowd. They needed to hear this.
“Garún hasn’t been able to visit her mother and grandmother in Huldufjörður since she came to Reykjavík six years ago. She’s being held prisoner in her own city. Being caught smuggling means you’re fined, if you’re human – it means the Nine if you’re not. Marbendlar rely almost solely on the rivers from Lake Elliðavatn, which passes through a customs checkpoint in the wall. They are strictly regulated and fined when the slightest errors occur. Last week, Kryik’traak, a friend of ours, was travelling by land from the Coral Spires of Þingvallavatn. He found himself held in custody for four days because he was missing a stamp on his merchant’s permit for the journey – meaning he had neglected to bribe someone. He was transporting precious pearls and crafts from the spiral city and had it all confiscated. He faces financial ruin because of this.”
Two hands were raised in the back. Garún recognised them: Styrhildur and Hraki. They stood up, blushing when everyone turned to look back at them, looking for a moment like the children Garún had known growing up. They’d smuggled themselves into the city a few years after her. They looked like teenagers, so self-conscious that it was almost painful to look at them.
“When we came into the city,” said Styrhildur in a faint voice, “we didn’t have any money to bribe the guards with. We didn’t know any traders or farmers going in. We had no documents, nothing proving who we were or where we came from. No one would help us.”
Her voice was quiet. Barely more than a whisper. A deep calm had settled over the room, as people held on to her every word. People were unconsciously holding their breath.
“I felt like nothing. Less than nothing. Then Garún and Diljá found us. Kind people helped us get through, so we could live in the city. Have a chance to learn something. Become something. Meet people. Read. See works of art.” She looked down at her feet, flashing a faint smile. “It was everything to me. I don’t want anyone to ever feel like that again.”
In the back, Jónas stood up and spoke out of turn.
“And what will a protest at City Hall do to fix this? We should march down to the gates, make them open them for us! Do a fucking real protest, some real activism! Just holding up signs won’t—”
“Jónas!’
Hrólfur’s voice boomed over the assembly. He didn’t say much during meetings, but he made himself of great use by usually being the one who made sure that some manner of order was upheld.
“Respect the meeting!’
A cluster of raised fists shot up in agreement, including from Garún and Diljá. Jónas sat back down, mumbling some form of apology.
Styrhildur looked a little lost after the interruption. Garún raised her hand and got the word from her. She and her brother sat back down, relieved.
“The city is in charge of traffic through the gates. Kalmar’s army mans its battlements, finances its upkeep – but when it comes to actually getting through the gates, the city, acting as the Directorate, has the final word. The mandatory check for identification, intent of travel, taxes – all of this is issued and controlled by the city. Everyone knows that the Commonwealth are the ones holding the reins, sure, and everything the city is doing is in line with Count Trampe’s agenda for Hrímland. Kalmar has the city and parliament in its pocket.”
She took a moment to look over the crowd. Read their faces. She saw the fire reflected in their eyes. Some of them were burning with ardour, with revolutionary will to change everything. There was anger and fear and doubt – but also hope.
“But we have to decide to start somewhere. We just have to find the right place to push them. The right way to rally people and get them to realise that things don’t have to be like this. We are too few in number for a protest at Lögrétta – a protest outside parliament in Austurvöllur has to have a big crowd to make an effect. Charging through the city gates will just get us shot, or worse – arrested and sent to the Nine.” She set her jaw and caught Jónas’ gaze directly. “At least the ones of us who aren’t human.”
He stared at her, defiant. She hoped he felt some semblance of shame over how much of a fool he was acting.
“We’re not idiots, Jónas. You’re not the only person in the room with at least half a brain – try applying part of it to some empathy or logic.” Some laugher to this, a fluttering of raised fists from smiling faces. “We’ve thought this through. There are armed guards at the gates, easily by the dozens if an alarm goes out. If we put pressure on City Hall, then it might get something moving. We know there are plenty of people from all over the city who aren’t happy with the state of things. Including people in the government. We just have to push them into doing something decent and standing up for the people. To have the courage to fight for change that will benefit everyone – not only humans.”
As she said this the gathering raised their fists and some who couldn’t hold back yelled out their support. She let herself smile. They were behind her. Most of them, at least. This could actually happen. She still needed to get the delýsíð, but she’d take care of that. They agreed with her. They believed in her.
Still …
Still, she couldn’t let herself relax. She had meant everything she’d said, but regardless she had a hard time actually believing much of what she was saying. Reform was not really a part of Garún’s politics. It was better than nothing, sure, but to her it felt like ladling water from a sinking ship. It was just enough to stay afloat, but it didn’t address the real root of the problem. It wasn’t drastic enough to make a difference. She could not find it in herself to truly believe it could make radical and authentic changes in her lifetime. But it had worked for her mother, when she was a child, so – she had to give it a try. Sometimes a little change can mean a world of difference. She knew that. She wanted that.
She was just tired of endlessly settling for scraps. She wanted the real thing. That day would come. This was only the spark. She would ignite the fire in their eyes. She raised her fist and started chanting, joyful fury gathering in her as others joined in.
No more Crown! No more Crown! Hrímland out of Kalmar, no more Crown!
* * *
Sæmundur was losing control of the galdur. He was struggling to rein in the forces flowing through him from outside this world. Something was wrong. Through his muttering of forbidden words and weaving of language and sound he had opened a metaphysical rift, one he was struggling to contain.
What Rotsvelgur had asked for was not impossible, but there was no established ritual that would permanently provide him with the protection and the aura of awe and fear he wanted. A temporary enchantment could be manifested, although with significant risk of a demon infesting the bones of either the galdramaður or its target, but it could be done. But a permanent galdur, that was still not manifested in the bones or flesh of its target … That would require some thinking out of the box.
Creating the audioskull for Garún had been an intriguing task for Sæmundur. He had been obsessed with the connection of music to galdur, how the actual intonation and shift in key affected the incantations themselves, and the noisefiend had been a kind of by-product of his research. He’d acquired a skull from one of the doctoral students in galdur in exchange for some highland moss and bound the demon into it. The galdur he used to make it was almost entirely a new creation. The demon was simple-minded, and so not a great risk, creating music from the proximity of danger to the person carrying it.
What Rotsvelgur needed was a similar kind of demon. One monitoring its surroundings, letting its wielder know of danger looming unseen around the corner. But it also needed to generate a kind of aura of fear and power. Its purpose was complex, but it still would have to be without the sentience of a tilberi or a golem due to its extended existence. A demonic servant was usually banished again within twenty-four hours, or after their task h
ad been done, whatever it was. As long as it was busy at work the galdur had a higher chance of safely working. Idle hands were the devil’s plaything. This kind of demon would not have a task to keep itself busy with. It only had to watch and wait. Idleness was a dangerous thing for a malevolent sentience.
With every step he took to wrest control of the unearthly energy he was drawing on, the more he felt his grip of the galdur loosen. Nothing reacted in the way he wanted it to. Something else was taking over the reins, and the more he resisted the stronger the pull of the current became, drawing him towards the whirling centre of the abyss he was being forced into.
Sæmundur started chanting a galdur of binding. It was too early for it – the demon was not fully manifested and he had only an idea of how its power would manifest – but he had no other option. It was either that or risk a full-blown possession. Slowly, he felt the galdur come to a close. He held on to the rituals of the binding like a drowning man on to a rope. He was seething with anger over his own incompetence. This was all from his own lack of understanding. He was stumbling around blindly, finding obstacles where he expected clear paths and unblocked ways where he expected a closed door. He hated that feeling and the fact that he seemed to be unable to get over it. This was not something he could adjust to. He was at his limits and he knew it.
Rotsvelgur was watching Sæmundur from a distance, perched on top of a construction crane. Should the ritual go awry the hersir had no intention of being caught in the crossfire, or blamed for this mishap. He’d said he would stand on a lookout, but Sæmundur was not convinced the náskári would have his back if the worst came to the worst.
With aching lethargy, the binding incantation started to take hold. The demon would be bound into human ribs, welded into Rotsvelgur’s helskurn. Slowly the bones started taking on a faint shade of blue. The breastplate was made by the náskárar, roughly moulded out of iron with their seiður. It was coarse and uneven, covered in ugly, sharp edges. As if it had been found out in the lava fields, a relic cast in an eruption centuries ago. It was easy enough to move the iron apart with galdur to make grooves for the ribs on the inside of the armour. After the galdur was finished Sæmundur would seal them in, making Rotsvelgur’s galdur imperceptible. The only way to catch it would be to use the sorcerous glass of the seiðskrattar’s masks, something incredibly rare and unlikely to be used by náskárar.
Sæmundur keeled over as he felt a cloying, aching pull at the core of his heart. The connection he had made, the pathway he had opened within himself to the outer forces, resisted his will. They would not relinquish their hold on this world, now that they were in. They would not let go of him so easily.
He had felt this pull before. But never like this. His lips trembled as he spat out words of protection, of exorcism. With trembling hands he dug into the gravel and the earth beneath it, sketching out galdrastafir and runes of power. He knew that these symbols were only instruments to focus his mind. He knew that the true power came from the incantation, the galdur itself. The very force with which he was struggling. But in that moment, he didn’t care. He felt small. Weak. Powerless. He would have kissed a holy symbol of the sovereign kings if he thought it would help him.
And then, it ended. The malevolent force, which just a minute before had felt all-encompassing and all-powerful, faded into nothingness. He was crouched on his hands and knees, sweating as if he had been running for days, grovelling before a presence no longer in his presence. Before him, the ribs were laid out in the armour shell, coloured a deep, ocean blue. Whether or not the demon had been manifested as Sæmundur intended, he had no way of knowing. He sure as hell had no interest in casting further galdur to find out. Whatever this was, it would have to do for Rotsvelgur.
The náskári landed on iron talons in front of Sæmundur.
“Is it done?’ he growled. “Was the fell ritual effective?’
Sæmundur wiped his face with his sleeve.
“See for yourself.”
He pointed towards the bones. With slow, cautious movements, Rotsvelgur leaned in and inspected the armour and bones, leaning his head to the side like a raven.
“Good,” Rotsvelgur said. “Seal the bones up. Hide them.”
“And my end of the deal?’
Sæmundur was not about to finish the job until he knew he had what he wanted.
Rotsvelgur removed a leather pouch from his belt. It had been firmly sealed with wax.
“Do not open it in my presence.”
“How will I know if it’s the real thing?’
Rotsvelgur stood silent, his feathers ruffling in the wind.
“All right, I suppose you’ve never let me down so far.”
Sæmundur took the pouch and hid it inside his coat. Even with the demon-infested bones in front of him, he still felt that he carried a greater force of malevolent destruction in that pouch. He started speaking to the iron and made it seal the bones within.
This ritual had almost cost him his life. But soon that would all be behind him. Soon he would gain true understanding. No matter the price.
Átta
Garún looked up towards Haraldskirkja. The split church tower loomed over the city. The stars were out in multitudes, the faint shimmer of the aurora moved lethargically in the east like streaks of oil on water. Electronic skylights lit the church up from below, bathing the twin spires in an amber light so it stood like a beacon in the dark, with a foundation reminiscent of rows of basalt columns. To Garún it had always looked like carcass split halfway down the middle, as in the violent old sagas, the forked crevice between the towers a jagged wound.
Haraldskirkja’s bell tower rang. It was a quarter to midnight. She shuffled her feet and tried to rub herself warm through the leather jacket. She was standing at the end of Skólavörðustígur, leaning up against a concrete garden wall on the side of the road where she wouldn’t be noticed. Bare branches hung over her head, the autumn leaves already gone. The colours hadn’t bothered to stay. Fucking Hrímland. The autumn barely lasted a week, it was just summer and then winter. Although calling it summer sometimes felt like a stretch. There was no good weather to be had, no matter the time of year. Or that’s what it felt like. Everlasting night or ceaseless day. Both exhausting and thrilling in their different ways. Yet, Garún felt a sense of elation. She preferred the long shadows of winter, the nights stretching into late morning and falling again in the afternoon. It made for better cover when tagging.
Garún killed time by rolling a cigarette. She preferred hand-rolled over the manufactured factory crap that the colonial stores sold. Tobacco was supposed to have character, a soul. The cigarette was ready and she licked the paper carefully, making sure the tobacco didn’t come loose. Lit it. Six minutes. The cigarette was rolled too tight, just like she preferred it. Smoking wasn’t worth it if you didn’t have to work for each drag.
There weren’t many people around and no one spared her a second glance. Trains rattled past on elevated tracks behind the church at regular intervals. In the distance they sounded like old toy trains. The electronic music buzzing in her headset was muted, calm, the audioskull hidden in her backpack. Everything was still. On a corner in the distance she saw a woman standing in the shadows by a couple of bare trees. Diljá. Styrhildur and Hraki remained out of sight, ready to warn her of any sign of trouble.
It was a calculated risk to sneak into the Forgotten Downtown. This wasn’t like shoplifting from the store. If you were caught at the grocer’s you only risked losing a finger, maybe a hand. If you were caught going in or out of the Forgotten Downtown you would vanish. There were a handful of people that she knew of who she suspected the police had caught. It was still just guesswork. They could have escaped or moved, perhaps they were hiding in Huldufjörður or out in the country. Maybe they’d made it to the mainland. There was no way of knowing for sure. But Garún was pretty sure that no one could vanish so completely and unexpectedly without the assistance of the Crown.
Two minutes
.
She threw away the stub and walked determinedly to the statue in the centre of the square, right in front of the church. She glanced around. The great square was empty, not a soul in sight. The majestic buildings of the háborg, the city’s acropolis, were dark and silent. The neoclassical buildings lining the square felt to Garún like a different kind of wall, a fortified citadel in the heart of the city that watched her from all directions. A prison within a prison. She felt trapped.
The statue was a powerful piece of art, a bronze sculpture of Hrafna-Flóki. He carried an axe in one hand and from the other a raven was taking flight. The king had brought it as a gift for the Hrímlanders and built it on top of the cairn that was there before. Before the statue was built and the square properly paved, the cairn had stood neglected for quite some time, years of negligence and laziness diminishing it to a pile of rubble. Times had changed during the intervening decades. Reykjavík wasn’t a small town by the shore any more. It was a city.
Shadows of the Short Days Page 10
