Kölski smiled. “As you wish.”
* * *
For the first time for years, a pale column of smoke rose from the chimney of the temple at Landakot. It slithered up, merging with the grey clouds. Sæmundur sat inside the smoke-filled temple, his face shining with sweat. The smoke stung his eyes and made them well up with tears. Carved idols of vættir burned in the fire. On the other side of the flames stood Kölski, nearly obfuscated by the smoke, chanting galdur with him. Sæmundur chanted long and deep rhythmic tones, drawing forth every syllable for as long as his lungs could in all the smoke. Kölski was at the opposite of the spectrum, spitting out forbidden names and incomprehensible invocations. The demon’s pitch-black chitinous shell seemed to move in the flickering light, to become liquid.
Calling forth a demon was not easy. Any hack could lose his guard and attract malevolent entities that spread like mould through the bone marrow, but to summon forth a certain being from the abyss and bind it was a heresy known to few and rarely mastered. That is why Sæmundur had been so surprised to read the page he’d stolen from Rauðskinna. It had been way too simple for its intended purpose, and that was the source of its true power and danger. Almost any fisherman could have performed it, given that they knew the foundations of a few common fishing charms and invocations of fortune. But this was entirely different. This was like bleeding into the ocean to attract a specific shark. Sæmundur would have had no chance of attracting the demon he needed by himself. But he had Kölski. A guiding lighthouse in the void. Now he had to place his trust entirely in him.
He felt a distant pull, on the edge of his consciousness. A sound, a scattering of dissonant whispers on the wind. He ignored it. His attention could not waver at this moment.
Sæmundur pulled out a razor-sharp knife and warmed the blade in the fire. His invocations became faster, weaving his galdur tighter in with Kölski’s chanting.
Gögll’mín err þat vera, keyrrtrak vit óberðk, heyrit funakraðak, ódreyil að vittk.
They chanted in unison. Suddenly their rhythm was off, then brought back together, their words the anvil and the rhythm a hammer, fluctuating in an endless improvised struggle. With these tools they shaped the knife into a key. A key to flesh and blood and the internal void. Sæmundur raised the red-glowing knife from the fire and held it in front of himself.
Vomgeifl lýs drunheima, rák mót blótrauna, vit mín sker at þurrð, bit mitt sker at kumlum!
Then – silence.
Sæmundur turned the knife to himself, let the point touch his chest. It burned.
And he carved a portal into his flesh.
As soon as the blood touched the knife’s edge, Kölski started to mumble, keeping away the forces that desired to break in. Those carrion feeders which swarmed around the bloody trail.
There are many other aspects to galdur besides words. Symbols. Movement. Intent. Supporting instruments, helping to manifest something unimaginable. His eyes were closed as he carved, letting the burning pain guide him onwards, rather than relying on sight. Sæmundur carved into himself a roughly elliptical symbol. He focused all his energy into this symbol, a gate which he retraced circle after circle, again and again, carving it into his mind as well as his flesh. He couldn’t focus on guarding himself – that was entirely up to Kölski now. He couldn’t even permit himself to worry about the imp at this moment – it would all be for nothing. He carved and carved and when the symbol was complete, when the portal stood fully open in a bloody, shredded wound, he filled his lungs with smoke and shadow and called out into the beyond.
“Bektalpher!’
He turned the knife’s edge down, placed it at the top of the elliptical wound. Slowly he flayed the bloody skin back, cutting down, revealing red and shiny meat. The wound was like an open eye on his chest.
“Bektalpher!’
Again he turned the knife’s point to himself and with a single, quick movement, he cut a horizontal, deep cut into the meat. Blood poured down his chest, his stomach, but it was not warm – it was glacial.
“Bektalpher!’
The red flesh on his chest twitched and Sæmundur gasped as he felt something moving, a cavity forming inside himself. The meat spread apart and formed gruesome lips. A voice that belonged to neither Sæmundur nor Kölski spoke.
“Sæmundur.”
Tuttugu og fimm
The sky was a clear azure, in the south a spread of tattered clouds. The low winter sun was out, casting its thin light over the crowds of people swarming from train stations, down streets, flocking towards the centre of the city. Garún tugged on the collar of her jacket and tried to blend in with the crowd. Kryik’traak had kindly supplied them with fresh clothes. Garún had snagged an imported denim jacket, so new it was still stiff. It was designed for labourers, but had recently become a fashionable item with teenagers, who were commonly seen wearing them while out drinking at Ingólfstorg Square every weekend. She’d decided against tagging it with delýsíð. The seiðmagn would make her stand out to any possible seiðskrattar, marking her as an obvious target.
She walked with Hrólfur down Hverfisgata, two random people in the middle of a crowd. The stream of people was a river filling out the entire road, flowing on towards Austurvöllur. The air was thick with promise and excitement. It reminded her almost of the celebration on the king’s birthday.
“Look.” Hrólfur pointed up to the eaves of the surrounding houses, where náskárar sat and surveyed the crowd. “The ravenfolk.”
In the sky the enormous náskárar flew in small groups, their blue-black feathers shimmering in the sunlight. On a few náskárar the light cast off the coarse and threatening iron fused to their beaks and claws.
“They’re out in numbers.” Garún permitted herself some hope. “Maybe last time wasn’t a fluke. If they decide to fully show solidarity then you know that something has to change.”
She stretched to see over the crowd. It seemed as if there was an unusually high number of huldufólk, or so it seemed to her – it was hard to see the difference between them and humans in such a large crowd. She even saw groups of marbendlar, decorated in garments made from shimmering scales, inlaid with luminous pearls. People were smiling and laughing. It was intoxicating.
The Crown had set up roadblocks, but it hadn’t been enough to hold back the sheer number of people going to the protest. Since it was Annexation Day, the gathering of massive crowds was technically legal. Garún couldn’t help but beam at the sheer number of people. They were here. Together. They were going to change the course of history.
They crossed the bridges at Lækjargata, over the stream and into the heart of the central city. There were fewer smiles and less laughter now. People unfolded signs and banners, raising them before entering Austurvöllur. A few pulled up scarves to cover their faces. Mostly the younger people, but she saw a couple of elderly ladies do it as well. Was it because of shame? Or good sense? She was uncertain. The grandiose buildings in Austurstræti towered over the pedestrians, severe and imposing, built in the Hafnían style. A reminder of who truly controlled the city.
A large crowd had gathered at Austurvöllur, pushing up against the defensive wall the police had formed around Lögrétta. Garún felt her stomach sink when it looked as if the Crown’s soldiers were among them, but as she got closer she saw they were just regular citizens wearing army helmets and armbands in the colours of the Royal Commonwealth. Occasionally they grabbed someone who they thought was getting too excited and dragged them behind their defence lines, disappearing them. Behind the front lines were rows of police officers, readily armed with the muzzle-loaded skorrifles. Just like last time. It sent a chill down her spine.
Garún felt the adrenaline rush as they merged with the protesters. A euphoric optimism was in the air, a certainty that new and brighter times were ahead.
No more Crown! No more Crown!
Garún quickly lost sight of Hrólfur. Most of the people arriving at the same time as her had charged to the f
ront, signs in their hands – or else something they wanted to throw at the parliament building and lines of police. Their shouts shook Austurvöllur, their fists were raised in the air in sync with the chanting. Garún shouted, screamed, celebrated, and when she looked back a while later she saw the protesters had completely filled Austurvöllur. Signs were raised everywhere, like an angry rash. A symptom of the oppression that was smothering them. The house of Lögrétta faced the crowd, unshakable in its grey silence. Biplanes patrolled the skies above.
Rocks, skyr, rotten eggs and balloons filled with paint were let loose on the house of Lögrétta and the police. Whenever the curtains moved, ever so slightly, a rain of garbage came crashing down on the source of the movement. Windows shattered and the grey stone house was coloured with bright paint and filth, looking like a cliff roosted by seagulls, stained with decades of their droppings. Up on the surrounding roofs sat the náskárar, their massive, iron-beaked forms completely encircling Austurvöllur. Black-winged shapes circled the air above. They crowed with the protesters in their own language. To her surprise she recognised one of them. Clad in that unique breastplate, the leader of the tribe himself: Rotsvelgur. The náskárar bristled their feathers and cawed towards a group of police officers down on the street, who pointed their weapons up at the náskárar, ready to fire at the slightest hint of provocation. The náskárar nearest Rotsvelgur seemed tense, leaning away from him, looking tense and ready to fly off, almost as if they were more afraid of their leader than of the armed police below. Rotsvelgur did not agitate the police, instead occasionally cawing out a command, constantly scanning the crowd, an apex predator surveying his domain.
Hrímland out of Kalmar, no more Crown! Hrímland out of Kalmar, no more Crown!
She wasn’t aware how long she’d been standing there, her voice raw from fighting chants, when she almost accidentally hit Styrhildur in the face with her outstretched fist.
“Styrhildur! I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you!’
“I’m so glad I found you!’ she shouted over the noise. Her brother Hraki stood next to her, a black handkerchief tied around his mouth and nose. “Where have you been? Are you all right?’
She told her about their refuge in Elliðaárdalur. Styrhildur and Hraki had been hiding on the city streets. Garún told them where to meet, so they wouldn’t have to resort to scavenging or stealing to be able to eat. Styrhildur went a bit pale when she told them about the jellyfish and diving into the deep caves, but still promised they would meet up with her.
The crowd suddenly pushed against them, threatening to separate them. The shouts were more agitated, rougher, angrier. The conflict at the front had got more intense.
Free Hrímland! Free Hrímland!
No more Crown! No more Crown! Hrímland out of Kalmar, no more Crown!
They grabbed hold of each other, afraid to drown in the ocean of people. Clubs were raised and brought down at the front. Stones rained over the police and an explosion came from the western side of Austurvöllur. Smoke rose and náskárar took to the sky. A volley of fire came from the skorriffles, seemingly from all directions. A few náskárar fell from the roofs. The rest took immediately to the air, diving in to the rows of the police officers, scrambling to reload, tearing into them mercilessly. She saw people rushing towards Lögrétta, knives and bludgeons in their hands.
A low hum that had just barely been audible kept steadily increasing. A growing shadow appeared in the eastern sky. Chimneys spewed out thick strokes of steam, which trailed in the behemoth’s wake. The sun gleamed on towering walls of iron. Cannons jutted out of the fortress at irregular intervals, covering all directions, some of them so large that they looked as if they could fire an automobile. Rotors and jet engines spun by the dozens, steering the machine forwards. Biplanes flew in swarms around the fortress, protecting their great hive of war and destruction.
Loftkastalinn.
The flying fortress. A gargantuan, sluggish monster made from iron and smoke. A miracle of modern engineering, remaking the very laws of nature to suit its needs. The future of warfare and the ultimate weapon, a symbol of unity, safety, power.
Loftkastalinn crept on closer until it was floating right above Austurvöllur. The dark iron mass blotted out the sky, massive cannons and turrets pointing down at the people gathered below. The deafening noise from the engines drowned out the crowd. A metallic voice came from the loudspeakers and megaphones, overpowering the engine drone.
“This is an illegal protest! Leave the square immediately!’
The voice repeated those lines like an incantation, but had the opposite effect from its stated intention. The crowd grew even more agitated, the shouts of protest turning into a steady, wordless cacophony. Hrólfur came charging through the crowd to find them.
“We have to get out of here!’ he yelled over the noise. “People are going to get killed!’
Garún stared at him, shocked. “You want to give up?’
“No!’ He looked offended. “But this is all about to go south. Stick around and you’ll end up dead or on your way to the Nine!’
“So what?’ she yelled at him.
“So we’ve got to stay alive to fight another day!’
“It’s not about you or me!’ she shouted over the noise. “Now is the chance to really make a difference! If we leave then nothing will ever change – and every non-human will always be a second-class citizen! And I won’t even be that.”
Hrólfur refused to budge.
“It’s futile! Do you think that the stiftamtmaður is sitting inside Lögrétta? Do you think that one goði is still in there? That house is empty – this is just a performance!’
“A performance that matters!’ A calm, seething rage boiled up in her. “Just fucking leave, then, if you are too scared to pay the price of real change! You fucking coward!’
She got up in his face and pushed him.
He stumbled backwards, barely catching himself on another person’s coat. A dark look came over his face. He glared at Styrhildur and Hraki, who stood next to Garún, readied as if to fight. And he did what she told him. He left.
Her rage had no bounds. The mob had lost control and everywhere she looked she could see brutal fighting. Supporters of the Commonwealth were now openly beating the protesters without hesitation, armed with batons from the police. She let anger guide her forward. A group of young people with bandanas over their faces were throwing stones at the police. She grabbed one stone, then another, and threw them until her shoulder hurt.
A red lightning struck, blinding her, and she stumbled forwards. Something had hit her in the head, hard. As she was falling, Hraki grabbed her and raised her to her feet. If she’d hit the ground she might not have managed to get back up from the stampeding crowd. Garún looked back and saw a young man holding a raised police baton, wearing an armband in the Kalmar colours on his right arm. He had an army helmet on his head. His woollen coat was thick and well-tailored, his shoes with no visible wear. His face looked as if he didn’t believe what had just happened. As if he was dumbstruck over this new power he found himself possessing. A slight smile crept over his face, the dawning satisfaction of the power he’d found at the end of the baton.
She still had a stone in her hand. She charged. He was so surprised that he didn’t react, still holding his baton in the air like a statue. She hit him right in the face with the stone, sounding a loud crack, and followed through with a kick to the groin, bringing him to his knees. The helmet flew off his head when she bashed him once, twice, in the head with the stone, now stained a sickening crimson. The other protesters surged in and stomped him into the ground.
The metallic voice from the fortress above went quiet. There were no more protesting chants, only the sounds of fighting. There was a war raging around them. The roofs were empty of dark-feathered náskárar, who now circled above, diving in groups of three, shredding men, grabbing them with the strong krummafótur and flying off with them, flinging police and civilians
alike through the air, arms flailing helplessly. Another volley of rifle fire was let loose, the air crackling with unnatural energy, bringing down several náskárar. The roar of the crowd shifted and Garún saw the Crown’s regiments marching in. They appeared along the streets at Kirkjustræti, Pósthússtræti, and the alleyway leading to Ingólfstorg. In a moment they had completely sealed off Austurvöllur. The soldiers were clad in dark leather armour, fortified with steel, the iron masks over their faces making their appearance machine-like and inhuman. Many of them carried skorrifles, others had army-grade seizure-bludgeons charged with seiður and spiked tower shields. An occasional seiðskratti stood in their lines. There must have been at least a dozen. Garún found herself panicking. This was just like the last protest. Worse. So much worse. She was trapped. Hrólfur was right. They were going to fucking die here. They were going to massacre all of them.
Styrhildur grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her.
“Garún! Snap out of it! Stay close to us – we’re going to m—”
A loud shot sounded over the noise. On the roof balcony of Landsímahúsið, the head offices of the National Telephone Company, were soldiers with a mortar. They had fired something over the crowd, going up in an arch of trailing smoke. People panicked, trying to get as far away from the shell as they could, but it was futile. There was nowhere to run now. The canister exploded almost ten metres above the centre of the crowd. Garún tried fleeing away, covering her mouth and nose with her sleeve, expecting toxic gas or something worse. But gas hadn’t come out of the canister. It was something else.
A being floated in the air above Austurvöllur. It was formless, colourless – but simultaneously not. It was an uncolour that didn’t match anything found in the spectrum of this world. Initially it was only a small, floating orb. It looked harmless.
Then it started to grow.
The uncolour spread through the air like oil over water. It grew, unwinding itself like an octopus uncoiling its tentacles. It reached out and down towards the crowd. Garún fought trying to stay upright, to keep the mob from trampling her into the ground in the panic. This was like nothing she had ever seen before, but it had to have some sort of explanation. A source. She suddenly remembered her goggles and hurriedly put them on.
Shadows of the Short Days Page 30
