Ah, the voice in her mind said. There you are. Our little deviant from the protest.
A pain started blooming in her, a freezing kind of pain, shocking her body from the chest out, spreading into her limbs, a current of ceaseless phantom suffering rising to a crescendo.
Your network is quite ingenious, despite how hacked together and rudimentary it is. An improvement of your crude signs controlling your comrades. You might perhaps have made a decent seiðskratti in a different life.
The pain arose in her, but she could not scream, could not move her arm, could only suffer.
Perhaps. The network will be a great asset to us. To think we haven’t considered the potential of delýsíð before.
They leaned in, filling Garún’s entire field of vision. The edges of existence were becoming dark.
Where are you hiding, you little rat? A tunnel? A cave? We will find you. We will find you and—
Garún snapped back to herself and fell backwards on the rough cavern floor. Diljá stood shocked, perplexed, having just forcibly pushed her away from the symbol. She was now leaning over her, repeating over and over, what happened, what’s wrong, reaching out to her in hopes of establishing an unspoken connection, but Garún could not answer, only scream from the relentless pain.
* * *
They ruined the sign with delýsíð paint as thoroughly as they could and abandoned the cave pocket Garún had used to set up the key rune in. It was for the best that she’d had the good sense to paint it elsewhere than their regular base. After a while the pain had faded, and as her body felt fine they gathered it had been a psychological attack.
“It was careless of you to make a new symbol,” Diljá said, gesturing towards the stack of newspapers Kryik’traak had brought them. “It’s already clear that Reykjavík is at boiling point. Why would you risk that?’
“I had to see,” was the only thing Garún could say for herself. “I had to know that it was true.”
“Right.”
Diljá sounded unconvinced. Garún reached out to her, wanting to communicate herself better, but Diljá didn’t open herself to it. Garún felt slightly troubled.
I guess my standoffishness has finally worn her down, she thought to herself. Figures.
“Listen, every single newspaper out there is printing what practically constitutes anti-Kalmar propaganda,” Hrólfur said. “Trampe has gone too far. They’ve fully armed the police, ground the traffic in and out of the city to a standstill, they’re harassing regular people for documentation and detaining them if anything is off. They’ve arrested several families because their kids aren’t properly documented.” He shook his head. “I’m not sure why the hell they’re so excessive, but it’s working to our benefit. People are outraged – regular people. This is our chance.” He started pacing. “Did you see that the Citizens’ Party has split up? They’ve formed a new party, the Home Rule Party. They’re pushing for more autonomy within the Commonwealth. This is huge news, although not entirely unforeseeable. It’s the first step towards independence.”
Katrín sat up on her bed. She looked slightly better, being able to hold food down now.
“What? Where was this?’
Hrólfur shuffled the stack of newspapers and fetched one for her.
“I’m afraid they don’t mention your father in there. Maybe he stayed with the old party,” he offered. “Or, well …’
Or he’s in the Nine with the rest of your family, was what none of them wanted to say. Katrín started poring over the newspaper.
“This is our chance,” Hrólfur continued. “Call for a mass protest. Annexation Day is coming up. People normally gather for festivities in the city. It’s the perfect opportunity.”
“How?’ Diljá asked.
“Kryik’traak will spread the word. We can send couriers to certain people at the newspapers, get them to print bulletins, post ads. Reykjavík isn’t that big. Everybody knows everybody.”
“I still haven’t reached my contact with the náskárar,” said Garún. “So Katrín should stay here and hide. She also could use the rest, maybe.”
Katrín nodded her agreement, still devouring every word of the newspaper. She looked better, healthier now. She looked concerned as she read. She didn’t look that happy about the party split, which surprised Garún. Wasn’t this what she had been hoping for?
“They might even show up,” said Hrólfur. “Like at the last protest.”
Diljá looked hesitant. “But why is Trampe cracking down so hard on the city gates? What is Kalmar looking for?’
“Us?’ Hrólfur suggested. “They raided Rökkurvík, after all.”
Diljá didn’t look convinced.
Garún knew who they were looking for. A rogue galdramaður. One considered to be allied with their cause. But she kept quiet. Who cared why the Crown was showing its true nature now? All that mattered was that they strike while the iron was hot.
“Let’s do it,” Garún said. “We need to put the word out. Get the people to rise up, together. It’s time to reclaim what is rightfully ours.”
Tuttugu og fjögur
The Stone Giant. Towering over all of creation. Wielding incomprehensible power and limitless wisdom. It was boundless, eternal, a ruling god over this timeless, unending landscape. When Sæmundur had conjured up the vision he’d shared with the crowd at the concert, he hadn’t really known what was going to happen. All he knew was that he wanted to impart something of what Kölski had shown him, and that he couldn’t do it with simple words. He had to show them, and so tried to emulate Kölski. He had failed, or at least only partially succeeded. But what he hadn’t expected was in that trying to teach others, he had chanced upon a completely new understanding himself.
The memory of meeting Garún on the night of the concert stabbed him deeper than he’d expected. At the time, everything had seemed possible. Garún being there had set off a chain reaction. He’d wanted to show her a part of what he had learned, show her that all of this was for something greater. But there was also something he wanted to communicate, something he couldn’t find the words for. An apology; a confession of love – he didn’t know what it was. It had affected the music and galdur in an unforeseeable way. He had managed on some level to cast galdur instinctively. He’d used instruments before to assist in galdur, to give him rhythm, a foundation. But at that moment there had been no words, no form or set path before him. Just pure galdur.
None of that mattered now. Because now Sæmundur understood the truth of the matter: he hadn’t learned a single worthwhile thing. He was just as weak, just as limited, as he had been before. The leaps he had made were microscopic, leaving him just as distant from the true, boundless potential of galdur. An untamable force that could make everything from nothing. Sure, he had grown competent enough at making cheap parlour tricks, which was all that the mortal tradition of galdur amounted to in the end. Small tricks and fleeting illusions. To understand time and the cosmos, to reshape these elements according to your will, to firmly grasp the reins of reality itself and stand outside the causal stream – that was the true, raw might of galdur. That was enlightenment. Divinity.
And the Stone Giant was the key.
He had also realised that all his new-found power stemmed completely from Kölski. When the demon was bound into shadow he found himself much weaker than before. Manifesting the demon had taken some toll on him he did not quite yet comprehend. He had paid a price that remained elusive to him, lost an intangible part of himself that was more than mere shadow. Even binding the demon into shadow was pushing his limitations. Binding Kölski required a constant reinforcement of galdur, or else everything could be undone in mere moments. It took every ounce of focus he could muster to keep the galdur reinforced. When he had been cornered by the Crown, he had been effectively powerless facing them. Kölski had done all the work.
He was the problem. His human body and his human mind. That was the nature of the chains of life, the constraints holding him b
ack. But to simply discard his corporeal form would only turn him into fodder for transmundane possession. No, he would have to find a way forward. He had to find a way to transform himself into something different – something more. Something beyond humanity.
He had to take certain steps before he could seek out the Stone Giant. He had an idea of what he had to do. But first he needed some answers.
After Garún kicked him out, Sæmundur had headed towards the edge of the Forgotten Downtown, to the limits where the mind couldn’t clearly interpret what lay ahead and led you time and time again back into the same street. He kept an eye out in case anyone was shadowing him and made sure to take a long-winded detour towards the shack where the portal was. Everything seemed fine. It was slightly easier to keep Kölski bound into shadow when it was dark and he was alone. The presence of light and other people placed a significantly greater strain on him. Still, he found himself completely exhausted just being by himself. He didn’t quite understand the fundamental, arcane nature of this galdur, as with so much else that Kölski had taught him. Claiming power alone wasn’t enough. He had to claim true understanding as well. He was certain that if he only pushed a bit further, he would attain that state he craved above anything else: true power, and a higher understanding of the capabilities of galdur.
Miracles were within his grasp. All he needed was to make a small sacrifice. And he had so much still to give.
He stepped into Reykjavík in the temple cemetery of Landakotshof. He collapsed into the tall grass, lying there like one of the moss-grown gravestones, camouflaged with the collapsed obelisks half sunken into the earth. He stared up into the grey sky. It was cold and the grass had turned yellow.
He wanted to disappear, to petrify and become forgotten like an illegible gravestone. Let his face slowly erode, like all these faded runes and inscriptions. It would be so much easier to give up. To let go.
Landakotshof was an old wooden temple, built on ancient stone foundations that predated the building itself by centuries. It was roughly round in shape, its domed roof low. Four great sculptures of the landvættir were placed around the building, each facing the cardinal point they were associated with. The sculptures were great monoliths decorated with countless vættir and ancient beings long forgotten, with the landvættur itself at the top, lording it over the lesser beings. The Great Eagle was made from skrumnisiron, crass and uninviting, its enormous talons gnarled and sharp. The Wyrm was cast in thaumaturgical meteoric iron, the seiðmagn lending its scales an unnatural sheen, making it seem as fluid as liquid water. The Stone Giant was made from seemingly naturally formed lava rocks and obsidian. The Bull was carved into a single basalt column in sharp, brutally clear lines, an uncompromising force of destruction.
Technically it was illegal to hold any other faith than that of the royal church, which preached of the royal family’s divine power and their godly right to rule, granted by the king’s ancestral connection to the divine and the ancestors themselves, made manifest through the Machine of the Almighty. Still the Crown had let the temple stand, out of respect for the land and the old ways. The old faith could not be practised officially, but it was possible to worship in secret. On certain days of the year small groups of people would gather in abandoned temples and places of power to offer the land their sacrifices. After the wall had risen around Reykjavík, these secret rituals had diminished rapidly. The thaumaturgical, untamed nature was now out of sight, something that belonged to the highlands and not to the city. Sæmundur was not raised heathen, but he still found himself missing it. If it was possible to miss something one has never experienced or known, that is.
“You are deep in thought, master.”
A raw voice spoke and Sæmundur jumped. He’d almost fallen asleep. For a moment he’d let his mind wander and immediately Kölski had broken free from the shadow. The demon sat on top of a gravestone, a gargoyle brought to life. Now that Sæmundur had stopped ceaselessly muttering incantations, he fully felt how absolutely exhausted he was. He couldn’t do this any longer.
“Do not despair,” said Kölski. “Redemption is within your grasp.”
Did I say that out loud? Sæmundur thought to himself. Or can he hear my thoughts?
If Kölski was capable of it, he showed no sign. Sæmundur waited until the demon continued.
“As I’ve said before, you are at your limit. You are merely human. Creatures of my ilk are far removed from yours.” Kölski smiled. “But … there is another which could speak on your behalf. Which could give you the control, the liberty, which is rightfully yours. You could become something far more powerful than you are now. Take a step towards claiming true control over galdur. If you have the courage to call upon him.”
Sæmundur knew of what the demon spoke. He had been considering it himself. The answer to his problems. The only thing holding him back was his own fear.
Before sacrificing Mæja, he had briefly considered manifesting the demon in his own flesh, but hadn’t had the guts to do it at the time. Which was perhaps for the best, it likely would have caused him to lose control of the ritual. Of the demon itself. But now … Now he had changed. He had attained the right mindset to advance further. He craved to feel that fire consume his mind again, to feel himself burn up from the blinding light of pure enlightenment. That unsullied primal force he had barely touched before.
He was well beyond second-guessing himself. The only way forward was through the crucible. From which he would emerge transformed. A shining beacon of enlightenment. Someone worthy of seeking out the Stone Giant.
The temple smelled of earth and burned birch. It was in complete ruins. Benches had been thrown over, broken effigies lay scattered around. Shards of glass crunched under Sæmundur’s feet. The walls were covered with graffiti, hearts and initials carved and sprayed over each other through the years. Clearly the temple was a popular place with the youth, somewhere they could let loose away from prying, judging eyes. Sæmundur doubted that the vættir minded. Clearly they were still being worshipped, although the sacrifices were wild debauchery instead of spilled blood. But he knew that wasn’t important. There were many ways to make a sacrifice, as he knew himself. In the middle of the room was a large sacrificial stone. Its bowl was naturally formed, the glimmering black lava rock like frozen winter darkness.
Sæmundur righted one of the benches with some effort and sat down. Every bone in his body ached. He felt weak. All these incantations he had spoken. New power brought into the world from his lips. He’d been reckless. He couldn’t be sure that a demon hadn’t broken through, inhabited his bones without him knowing.
Kölski clawed its way up an oblong stone, a sculpture of some vættur or the other. It had three eyes but no mouth.
“You are at a crossroads. Something you should be used to by now. You have to make a choice, master – because after this there is no turning back.”
He grunted. “That happened long ago, demon.”
“No, master. I’ve been standing guard over you, although you have not always been aware of it, holding back forces that would have devoured you instantly and filled your heart with the immeasurable hungering void. You’ve been dancing on the precipice, a lunatic only one false step from complete ruin. But now you can’t go further on your own. That is why I tell you that there will be no turning back. If you perform the ritual you will let that which is and that which has never been into your body and soul. You will cease to completely belong to yourself.”
He wasn’t sure how to respond. It was strange to hear these words of warning from the devil himself.
“Perhaps I’ve never really belonged to myself.”
The threat of possession had been hammered into Sæmundur’s mind from the first day of his studies. Unlike almost everything else that teachers and others had tried to indoctrinate into students, Sæmundur had never seen any reason to doubt this universal truth. There were too many stories of galdramenn who went too far, became too careless, lazy, clumsy, ambitious.
Every incantation, every syllable in a word of power, was a possible portal for the transmundane fiends to break through and possess the galdramaður. No master was safe from their corrupting force. The demon could overwhelm the galdramaður immediately or wait, hiding possibly for decades, before it struck at a prime moment. Sæmundur wasn’t certain if Kölski had been shielding him or whether his own power was sufficient, but he had always remained on guard. So to invite the beyond intentionally, meaning to tame it … It had been unimaginable up to this point. Impossible.
Which was exactly what his teachers had said when he pitched to them his research studies on the fundamental nature of galdur, in which he meant to gain a higher understanding by experimenting on galdur by developing a method that relied more on insight and feeling, rather than precise rotes from memory.
Impossible. Unimaginable. Disastrous.
A childish idea, a sign of his lack of maturity and patience. No one became a galdramaður by removing themselves from the tradition that came before them. That was for superstitious kuklarar, amateurs who never gained a deeper understanding of the lore. Galdur was not supposed to be alive and free, it was to be chained down in immovable traditions and rituals. Any deviation from that was to invite danger and a fate worse than death.
Sæmundur gnashed his teeth, clenching his fists so his knuckles whitened. His former teachers at Svartiskóli had been wrong about so many things. Their ignorance was limitless. He had sacrificed so much for just the taste of true power – he would be a fool to stop here.
“Again you stand at the threshold, master. The choice is yours.”
“I abide no limits. I will call upon him.”
Shadows of the Short Days Page 29
