Shadows of the Short Days

by Alexander Dan Vilhjálmsson

  Þráinn nodded. “The galdramaður is our priority. We need to make sure enough of him survives for questioning.”

  The seiðskratti tilted their head, leaning towards Þráinn. It made him uncomfortable, the movement almost predatory in nature. He tensed up, reminding himself that the protective charms he carried would shield him from the seiðskratti. He had submitted a highly classified report about his encounter with Sæmundur. Þráinn had only survived it due to the sorcerous reinforcements made to his body as part of his training. The Directorate’s galdramenn had cleared him of any lingering transmundane influence, but he still felt uneasy knowing that the two seiðskrattar had been given access to the report.

  “That might prove to be impossible,” the seiðskratti said in a low voice. “If the report you submitted is correct, he is quite formidable. But we will see.”

  Þráinn seethed with anger, but kept his mouth shut. Magister Gapaldur raised their hands and turned to the sky. A stream of crimson tendrils flowed from their fingertips into the air.

  “If they are here I will find them soon enough.”

  * * *

  Plumes of smoke rose into the sky, shaded red by the swarming flares. The house was now properly ablaze, joining several others in the area. It had served as a bar, likely a meeting point for members of the resistance. The local denizens from this and nearby streets were lined up on the muddy road, on their knees, hands cuffed behind their backs. Three corpses were lying in the mud by the fire, patrons of the bar who had resisted arrest. One of them had been a hobo who stank to high heaven, a rambling psychopath. He had hardly resisted, only started shouting when the police charged in, but that had been enough. It looked like they would be cleansing the city of all kinds of filth tonight.

  Þráinn walked down the line and took in the faces of the handcuffed people in front of him. Humans and huldufólk, male and female. They looked thin and haggard. Worn out. Likely drug addicts, most of them. Lárus handed him a backpack. It was filled with spray cans.

  “Confiscated this from these two.” He pointed to a woman and a man who had been separated from the rest of the captives. “Magister Gapaldur has confirmed faint traces of delýsíð.”

  Þráinn smirked. They must have fetched their stash before trying to get out. Amateurs. He crouched down next to them. The man’s face looked familiar. It was clear that the two cared for each other. Small, stolen glances, reassuring looks flashed in perceived secret. They were making this too easy.

  Þráinn squatted next to the couple.

  “Where are they?’ His voice was quiet, the lack of threat in his tone all the more dangerous. “You know who I’m looking for. I’m warning you – I won’t be asking again.”

  They kept staring intently down into the mud, as if they couldn’t hear him.

  He stood up and waved over the seiðskratti. Magister Gapaldur approached slowly, probably not thrilled about being called over like a dog. Whatever. The freak needed a proper reminder of whom they serve. But that would come later.

  “Magister.”

  He pointed to the woman, nodded to Lárus. Lárus moved in and took off her handcuffs, cuffing her hands again in the front. Experience had shown it to be a more suitable physical arrangement.

  “Please, commence your work.”

  This wasn’t the first time they had done this. It was a tired routine at this point, mostly performed deep within the dungeons of the Nine. Regular torture was ineffectual and risked killing or maiming the victim in an irreversible manner. This was a much neater method, mostly effective due to the psychological effects.

  Suddenly Þráinn remembered where he had seen the man. He wasn’t a Hrímlander, he was a wanted Kalmar soldier who had deserted his post. For this girl, it looked like.

  “You,” he said, and kicked the man hard in the side. He shouted from the pain and Þráinn thought he might have cracked a rib. It was still hard to gauge his strength since the thaumaturgical infusion. “Look up. This is for you, soldier.”

  The man looked up, his face set with unmitigated hatred. The seiðskratti stretched out their arms, fingers splayed – then they moved. And the woman started to scream.

  Her body twitched. She bent even deeper, her face almost to the mud, then threw herself back, arching her back with sickening sounds of cracking and breaking as bones and bristle reconfigured themselves into new forms. Her teeth fell out of her mouth like unchewed food, leaving her toothless and drooling. Her left shoulder shook and her coat tore as an ivory horn broke through the fabric, her arm in turn becoming longer, more muscular. One by one her fingers broke backwards and were folded into her hand, which became calloused and misshapen, looking almost like a hoof. The handcuffs dug deep into the new, bloated flesh. The shoulder-horn kept on growing, making her left shoulder obscenely large, causing her to lose the autonomy of her neck as the mutations of her own body started to devour her. Her vocal cords started changing, becoming almost animalic. New teeth grew in her mouth, a grotesque mismatch of fangs and large, blunt molars, filling her mouth even as her jaw and skull elongated and twisted.

  The man had been screaming for them to stop, that he would tell them everything, since the moment the woman had keeled over in pain. Þráinn knew that obtaining a certain visual effect right at the beginning was more efficient when it came to extracting information. It all served to better establish the real premise of this dialogue. Taking a dramatic first step made any theoretical following steps all the more horrifying to the imagination. He held up a hand and Magister Gapaldur stopped their work, with some noticeable reluctance.

  Þráinn kneeled down again next to the man and fished a cigarette case out of his jacket. He struck a match and lit it.

  “You know what’s waiting for you. You are a deserter and a traitor to the Crown. But her – she might still live. Likely she has family to take her back in. It doesn’t have to end like this.”

  He held up a hand to stop the man from talking. He smoked, leisurely. Established control. The couple silently wept, waiting for him to give his permission. Like good mutts, he thought, trained for serving the empire.

  “Now,” he said and blew out smoke. “Speak.”

  * * *

  They were gone when the police broke down the doors and searched the house. They had marked the place with hidden delýsíð signs, diverting the officers from investigating it. They had just stormed right past it during the raid. It was a miserable hovel, filled with filthy mattresses and broken furniture. Already police officers were tearing up what little was in there, looking for hidden compartments in the floor and walls.

  Lárus came running, Þráinn and Magister Gapaldur waiting for him on the upper floor in a ruined drawing room, facing a massive graffiti work encompassing the entire wall. It was a mess of a sigil, drawn in black paint. Streaks of red spray paint criss-crossed it, still glistening wet and leaking down the wall. The sorcerous radiation from the painting was nauseating, a mess of conflicting intent.

  “Magister Gapaldur, what are we looking at?’

  “Whatever it is, they’ve ruined it,” Lárus butted in. Þráinn turned around, taking a good moment to hold his gaze. “The place is deserted, sir, I’ll … uh … I’ll go and manage the search downstairs.”

  “That would be a suitable use of your skill set, Inspector.”

  Þráinn turned to the seiðskratti and tried to decipher their disposition. The seiðskratti was staring at the graffiti, almost longingly, turning their head and taking it all in with a lethargic fascination.

  “It’s … wonderful,” they said in a soft whisper. “Brutal, inefficient, barely functional – but still laden with overwhelming power. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “What is it?’

  “I am uncertain. The sabotage has obfuscated its purpose.”

  “So it’s ruined?’

  That fucking blendingur. The bitch had been one step ahead of them, somehow.

  Magister Gapaldur approached the graffiti, tou
ching the wet paint with a gloved finger.

  “No, not exactly. Only … obfuscated. Their sabotage was not as thorough as they would have liked.” The seiðskratti touched the forehead of their white mask, drawing a crimson symbol on themselves with the wet paint. “Whatever this was, it was a key. A key to something greater.” They touched the graffiti with a flat palm, gasping slightly at the flow of seiðmagn, audibly resonating through the room. “I will repair it. And I will unlock whatever secrets it held.”

  “See that you do.”

  Something cracked under Þráinn’s feet as he was about to exit the room. A seashell, it looked like. He picked up a dark string, on which a menagerie of broken conches and shells had been threaded in elaborate patterns. The design was typical of the marbendlar, although he wasn’t familiar enough with their culture to know from where exactly it came. A centrepiece was missing, a delicate woven cradle where it should sit snugly. He investigated the floorboards closely and sniffed the air. A faint scent of salt and glass.

  He placed the ruined necklace in his pocket and smiled.

  Tuttugu og tvö

  They crossed over in a panic, using the first portal Garún could track down with the audioskull. Diljá and Hrólfur had grabbed what meagre supplies they had and carried Katrín, still unconscious, between them.

  The city streets spread out before them like a hostile maze, but Garún was unquestionably relieved to see the moon and stars back above her in the sky, not that bottomless void. Seeing the red flares had filled her with a crushing feeling of dread mixed in with relief. She realised she had been waiting for this for quite some time now. They were drained after staying in the Forgotten Downtown, but there was no time to rest. Garún led them out of the city centre using the audioskull and the noisefiend as their guide. She had picked up a few roadblocks using the delýsíð network. They followed side streets along Hverfisgata, heading towards Miklatún, where the road split into Miklabraut, which ran straight towards the eastern gate. It was easy to move unseen through Hlíðar, the quiet neighbourhood home to well-off humans, respectable families working honest jobs. Or, at least, so it seemed on the surface. Only a handful of police officers came their way, walking their evening beat, and they sneaked past them with ease.

  In the distance they heard sirens and a spattering of gunfire. They stopped and listened. The audioskull sounded calm.

  “They’re rounding up the people who escaped from Rökkurvík,” Hrólfur said after a while.

  “Do you think your people made it out?’ Diljá asked Garún.

  “I don’t know. We had established escape portals. But …’

  But who knew if any of them were trustworthy, she wanted to say. Who knew if any of them had sold them out, like Viður had done to her.

  “But they might not have had the time,” she settled for instead.

  They headed south, making sure to keep off the beaten path by going through empty residential streets. Murky lamps fuelled by fish oil lit their way, their lights faded and soft compared to the bright yellow electric lights on Hverfisgata. Garún cursed all this lighting, which made it harder for her to travel unseen, but she was secretly glad of it. The Forgotten Downtown was too empty – too dark. The memory of the pale blue lights of the hrævareldar haunted her.

  They heard Fossbúagil before they saw it. They were walking along the new and dignified streets of Fossvogur. The occasional lamp lit up the paved road and whitewashed terraced houses. As they went around a corner the road faded into a flat heath, which itself quickly ended in a sheer drop. The canyon of Fossbúagil was long and wide, roughly circular, as if a titan had stepped down into the middle of the city.

  The moon was out and in its light they could see over to the rocks on the other side. Residential houses lined the edge of the canyon precariously, the dark water shimmering at the bottom. Frayed ropes and broken ladders hung from the edge down to the deep lagoon, and steep paths hugged the cliff side down to the clear water. For years this had been one of the most beloved swimming spots for the people of the city, until the vættir in the waterfall began to stir and children started disappearing. No one knew why the vættir had reappeared so suddenly. The knowledge of how to pacify them with sacrificial blót was long since forgotten. The last ruling stiftamtmaður had royal seiðskrattar “exorcise’ the vættir inhabiting the waters, and for a moment everything seemed to be in order. But when an entire school class vanished on a spring field trip it was decided to strictly forbid any swimming in the canyon lagoon. That didn’t stop teenagers from sneaking in for skinny-dipping under the pale moon, and occasionally the papers would print articles about children claimed by the vættir in the waterfall.

  Garún was uncomfortable out in the open, but the darkness would give them some cover. They walked along the canyon’s edge towards the waterfall. Diljá stumbled more than once in the mossy heath, but Hrólfur always helped her get up immediately. Katrín occasionally groaned to herself, almost regaining consciousness. She was shaking, and reeked of sour sweat and sickness.

  The river of Fossvogsá branched out from the great and strong currents of the rivers in Elliðaárdalur, flowing straight into the canyon. The waterfall ran down the cliff in a terraced slope, looking like great steps intended for ancient giants. Large nets were stretched across the river above the waterfall, catching most of the junk that floated downstream. The marbendlar had exclusive access to water traffic in Reykjavík, thanks to a centuries-old covenant, or else the canyon’s lagoon would likely have turned into a toxic dumping pit long ago.

  They headed upriver from the waterfall until they came to the pier. Kryik’traak was waiting for them, seemingly alone. The charm he had given to Diljá had apparently worked. She had broken the pendant of the shell necklace when Garún had barged in, carrying Katrín over her shoulders. Garún had been unaware she’d planned for this last resort and was secretly impressed with Diljá’s resourcefulness. But it also made her consider what else she might be hiding.

  Garún always found it strange to be around marbendlar, despite having worked alongside them when she first came to Reykjavík. Their faces, reminiscent of wolf-fish, looked cold and emotionless to her. She couldn’t stand her own inability to look past their appearance and what seemed to her like peculiar manners. She hated that about herself. She should be better than that. She told herself that she just had to spend more time around them, but marbendlar, like náskárar, did not much care for the company of humans and huldufólk. Still, she wanted Reykjavík to belong to them just as much as herself. Despite that, a stupid, ugly part of her thought they looked alien. The worst part is that the marbendlar never cared that she was a blendingur. It could be that they were the group of people most tolerant towards her in Reykjavík, and this is how she repaid them.

  “I’ve been waiting,” said Kryik’traak.

  His scales were grey and coarse, covered in black and white spots down his sides. Fins jutted out down his back, arms and tail, decorated with rings of green-tinted copper and silver. He was a bit over Garún’s height, tall for a marbendill.

  “What happened?’

  “The Crown raided Rökkurvík,” said Diljá, and gently put Katrín down with Hrólfur. “We need to hide.”

  Kryik’traak nodded, mimicking the human motion in an exaggerated manner.

  “The Coral Spires stand with you. Riots recently by the river gates. Shooting.” He stared at Katrín. “Shot? Injured?’

  “We’re not sure,” said Garún when the others hesitated to reply. “She’s sick from something.”

  “We have remedies. Come.”

  He led them down the pier, where a barge was waiting for them. It was loaded with barrels of herring and reeking seafood, along with a few crates and sacks. Thick ropes tied to the helmsman’s seat in the prow went down into the dark water, the bridle of the nykur below the surface. Kryik’traak led them to a couple of open barrels.

  “Here. Until we reach Elliðaárdalur.”

  “You are
kidding,” said Hrólfur. “I’m not going to fit in there.”

  “We don’t have time for this,” Garún said harshly, and climbed into a barrel.

  Kryik’traak and Hrólfur gently lifted Katrín into a barrel. Diljá and Hrólfur followed suit.

  “Only two nails. Can break out if you need to. All right?’

  They each nodded in agreement. The barrel reeked, but was otherwise clean enough. Garún sat on the bottom with her knees up to her chest. She already felt the blood draining from her legs. She didn’t look forward to the trip. Kryik’traak placed the lid on the barrel and everything went black. The barrel shook from the impact as he hammered two nails into the lid. She listened as he did the same to the others. Then, heavy thuds as he moved cargo around them, hiding them. She felt the rhythm of the water, how the river moved around the barge. A sudden movement. They were on their way.

  The barge moved effortlessly against the current at a steady pace. She shut her eyes and leaned her head forwards on her knees. Imagined she had vanished, was lost. That there was nothing outside but darkness and bottomless waters. That she would wake up in a new place. Somewhere safe and warm, where the sun shone throughout the year. She imagined that she had jumped through the broken church windows in Hamar.

  She woke up when Kryik’traak knocked on her barrel just before he jammed a crowbar in to tear it open. The sky had turned faintly pale, hinting at a far-off late morning sunrise. She took his hands and he helped her get out. She could hardly stand for the painful needles jabbing her numb limbs, but Kryik’traak handed her the crowbar and told her to help her partners out. Time was of the essence.

  Garún tore open the rest of the barrels and helped the others get out. Katrín was semi-conscious, so weak and out of it that Hrólfur still had to support her. They were by the rivers of Elliðaár, just south of the Elliðabær neighbourhood. The river was deep here, its currents strong. Kryik’traak had tethered the barge to one of the many poles sticking out of the river. Pale buildings made of coral lined the riverbank, coarse tangles of buildings and twisted spires that reached deep down to the bottom. Marbendlar used seiður to grow and shape this unique type of coral, which thrived in salt water and fresh water alike. In a matter of days an entire city could be grown, given enough access to seiðmagn in the area. The noise from the hydroelectric plant could be heard in the distance upriver. The sun wasn’t visible, but the skies were getting lighter. Soon enough the river would be filled with barges heading to Sæmannahöfn or up against the stream towards the locks of the old hydroelectric dam, the river gates and Elliðavatn.