Shadows of the Short Days

by Alexander Dan Vilhjálmsson

  “We’ll demand that they do, publicly,” Katrín replied. “And I think people will support us. The royalists still have a significant part of the seats in Lögrétta, but even they will know it’s political suicide to stand firmly with Kalmar after what’s happened. Most of them must be doubting their overlords by now. The Citizens’ Party split into the Home Rule Party because of the events of the last few weeks. The political landscape is all set for a final push. They’ll use Trampe’s absence to push for further independence, I’m sure of it. They’d have the legal grounds to do so. And with home rule at least, we’ll better be able to make our own rules for all our peoples.”

  “The Coral Spires will want to use the opportunity as well,” said Kryik’traak. “It is our hope to renew the old treaties from before the Commonwealth.”

  “A unified nation,” said Katrín.

  “That will happen with time.” Diljá sounded almost pleading. “Please. Even if all this happens, Kalmar will just retaliate with even more force. No more violence. Haven’t enough people died?’

  The silence that followed smothered the question, still hovering in the air around them.

  “I think it’s best we go.”

  Hrólfur reached for Diljá’s hand. She hesitantly took it, not willing to believe that this was happening.

  “The Crown will still be looking for you,” said Garún. “They won’t stop just because a temporary political ceasefire is in order.”

  “I have other places to hide,” said Hrólfur sternly. “Focus on worrying about yourselves.”

  With that, they left. The people remaining – Garún, Katrín, Styrhildur, Hraki and Kryik’traak – started planning out how they would do the impossible.

  Commit an act of treason and possibly war.

  Disable Loftkastalinn.

  Ambush Trampe.

  Spark the revolution.

  Tuttugu og átta

  The train shook along the rails and Sæmundur suppressed a moan. The wound had stopped bleeding as soon as the ritual was completed, but the pulsing pain was steady and the flesh was weak and incredibly sensitive. He was unsure of how long had passed since he’d performed the ritual. Days? Weeks? It still hurt as badly as the moments after the ceremony, before he had blacked out. He felt Bektalpher’s lips move inside his shirt, a non-stop torrent of powerful incantations, whispers dancing just beyond the limits of human hearing. Kölski was bound into shadow, which frequently was cast in the wrong direction compared to how the light fell, sometimes moving out of sync with Sæmundur himself. There was nothing to be done about that. All he could hope was that no one would notice.

  The ritual had taken a lot more out of him than he had imagined. After he regained consciousness he had just lain there in the temple for the longest time, discarded in the dust and broken rubbish like another forgotten idol. He shook from the blood loss, too weak to move from hunger and thirst. But also from something else. A loss, a sacrifice he didn’t quite yet comprehend. When he found the strength to stand up he wasn’t thirsty or hungry any more. He’d possibly been lying there for three or four days, maybe a week – he wasn’t certain. And that was only the time he was conscious. The entire ordeal ran together into one, ceaseless moment. At some point he had realised that Garún had called out to him, that the charm he’d given her had been broken. It was effortless to place her in the city, hidden deep in the earth by the Elliðaár rivers. A pang of guilt stung him, all the more deep and hurtful because it was as if other emotions had become something more resembling a distant memory. She had been his last tether. Now, it seemed even that had been severed.

  He sat on the train, heading towards Elliðabær and then north to the last stop at Gufunes. Nobody would sit near him. Probably he reeked of sweat and dried blood. He’d been sensible enough to try to clean the blood off his face and his clothes, but it didn’t do much good. He still felt how it had dried in the nooks and crannies of his body and clothes. He could constantly smell iron in his nostrils. It felt somehow right to him. This is who he was now.

  All logic went against taking the train. There were more seiðskrattar around than usual, and they’d see Sæmundur stand out like a wolf in a sheep shed, glowing from the demonic possession that had taken root in him. He should be moving through the city in secret, on foot, in the cover of night. But somehow he didn’t care. He moved through the checkpoints like a ghost. He hadn’t come across any seiðskrattar, but what would it matter? A seiðskratti stood no chance against him at this point. Sæmundur wondered idly which bone exactly Bektalpher had possessed in him. Was it the sternum? Or perhaps in a completely different place – his femur, perhaps? He didn’t feel any different, except for the pain and the weird feeling coming from the newly grown orifice on his chest. He didn’t feel Bektalpher’s presence in a spiritual sense; he still very much felt like himself. How long could one walk around with a demon in one’s bones without realising it?

  The train came to a halt at Gufunes and Sæmundur got out. Police officers were standing watch inside the station, but didn’t spare him a second glance. To them he was just another hobo, and as long as he got out of there they didn’t want to turn him into their problem. The station was crowded with workers from the harbour or the factories. Sæmundur limped against the flow of workers heading home, getting out without trouble.

  The city walls had three main gates: Grafarhlið to the east, Rauðavatnshlið to the south-east and the main gate to the south, simply called Suðurhlið. Officially those were the only ways in and out of the city – at least they were the only roads leading in or out. But dotted around the walls were smaller gates, not intended for heavy traffic, mostly used by the Crown or the authorities. One such entrance was at the north side of the wall in Gufunes. Sæmundur had a clear view of the exit straight down an empty street. The large, heavy iron doors were broad enough for a horse, but too small for a carriage. Two soldiers stood watch. There were no seiðskrattar nearby and neither of them seemed to have thaumaturgical googles, as far as Sæmundur could see. Behind them towered the city wall. Soldiers marched back and forth on top of its battlements, their helmets shining in the sunlight. The outer side of the wall was mounted with iron-grey cannons, like spears set against whatever threat the cursed nature could send their way.

  Usually Sæmundur would have strolled up to the guards, calm as you can be, stealthily palming them a small bundle of bills without any suspicion. These types of men were not above accepting bribes – especially if they were guarding the gate leading to Hræfuglaey. But Sæmundur was filthy and bloody, and – what was worse – broke. The guards would perhaps let a hobo through, but only if he could pay them. He couldn’t make himself literally invisible, and getting through with force could have some unfortunate consequences later on. He wanted to do this without any trouble. He considered if he could weave an illusion to appear like a ranking officer, but decided against it. Too complicated, too risky. Not every problem was a nail to be hammered down with galdur. He needed a natural, effortless solution.

  He monitored them, contemplating his next step. What was it like to guard the way to the most powerful tribe of náskárar in the greater Reykjavík region? Whose scorn incited greater fear – the Crown or Those-who-pluck-the-eyes-of-the-ram? Sæmundur stumbled away from the gate, into the nearby industrial area.

  Tall chimneys stood black and still like ancient obelisks. Steelworks, quarries, repair shops for decrepit train wagons. Small rusted fishing boats slowly weathered down to ruins on an open gravel field, everything useful reclaimed from the wrecks a long time before. Nearby were a few restaurants, clustered close together. Messy workers’ fare, soured and smoked meats served in dining halls lined with grimy tables where people sat, snuffing tobacco and drinking oily, tarcoloured coffee. Sæmundur went behind one of the diners, to the alleyway where they took out the trash. A gust of blue-black wings swirled up at his arrival as ravens jumped up from open trash containers and rolled-over bins, which they had cleverly pushed over and o
pened. They sat up on the eaves and stared at him sideways and down their long beaks, so similar to their cousins that Sæmundur was made uncomfortable.

  He rooted around in the open container until he found what he was looking for. Svið. The singed sheep’s head was dried and half-eaten, likely around a week old. He shut the lid on the container and placed the leftovers on top of it. Then he waited.

  * * *

  A short while later Sæmundur walked up to the gate where the two soldiers stood guard. They saw him coming, but didn’t show any reaction.

  Good so far, Sæmundur thought to himself.

  “Halt,” one of them said in a thick continental accent when Sæmundur was close enough. “This gate is closed to general traffic.”

  “My apologies, my lord, my apologies.” Sæmundur bowed reverently and repeatedly, making himself as low as he possibly could in front of these great lords in their polished armour, each wielding a skorrifle. “I do not mean to interrupt, but …’ He hesitated, glancing behind him, as if he was afraid of being followed. “I have an important message. Very important.”

  “Get lost!’ the soldier spat.

  The other one tightened his grip on his rifle. They wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him and no one would mind. It was fully within their rights.

  “No, my lord, I beg your forgiveness, I am sorry, please, I am only a messenger.”

  “What do you mean?’

  Sæmundur hesitated again. The soldier lost his patience.

  “What the fuck do you mean, man? Spit it out!’

  At that moment Sæmundur pulled out the carcass he had been hiding under his coat. The raven’s feathers were shredded, its eye sockets empty and its intestines hanging out.

  “I have a message, my lord. I am but a messenger. A message to Those-who-pluck-the-eyes-of-the-ram, from Bare-bones-in-an-empty-ravine.”

  The soldiers exchanged an uneasy glance. A tribal feud was a bloody and ruthless matter. Those-who-pluck-the-eyes-ofthe-ram and Bare-bones-in-an-empty-ravine were two of the largest tribes in the south-west corner of the country. Other species rarely got involved in these feuds, so tribal politics weren’t always clear to those outside náskárar society. But if they interfered with the message being relayed, they might have to pay for it. Nobody wanted a dishonoured or shamed náskári after them.

  “Go on,” the soldier hissed.

  Sæmundur limped towards them. They opened the iron doors just wide enough for him to get through, and as soon as he did they locked it behind him.

  The fresh ocean breeze greeted Sæmundur on the other side of the wall. He breathed easier. Nature lay spread out before him, sea and snowy mountains, great and barren and immortal. To think that all of this ruthless, overwhelming nature was locked out of sight behind the walls, so people could forget that something greater and infinitely more powerful than them lurked at their threshold.

  An overgrown path went down from the wall to the beach, where a thin stretch of land made of sand reached out towards the island of Hræfuglaey. The Crown had made a land bridge to it shortly after completing the wall, much to the chagrin of the náskárar. A black cloud of náskárar swarmed around the sheer cliffs of the island. He could hear the faint noise of their crowing and cawing, crude and ancient sounds.

  Sæmundur tossed the raven’s carcass as soon as he gained a proper amount of distance from the wall. A dead raven was one of the greatest insults there was, doubly so if mutilated, and if Bare-bones-in-an-empty-ravine had really sent Those-who-pluck-the-eyes-of-the-ram a dead raven, all hell would break loose in Reykjavík. The tribes regularly fought among themselves, but it was more tradition than real conflict. A mutilated and ravaged raven’s carcass was a grave insult and equal to a declaration of war, having different meanings depending on what was done to the raven itself. Sæmundur had no idea what an eyeless raven with its intestines hanging out meant, but whatever it was it could not be anything good. He knew as much, as did the soldiers at the gate.

  Two great shadows circled above him. He saw no glint of iron at this distance, but he was certain that they were blóðgögl. He kept on walking, not hesitating, trying not to consider if they’d notice that his shadow didn’t fall according to the sunlight. Thankfully it was fairly overcast, but still the sun hung low in the sky at this time of year.

  He looked up. The shadows were larger now, lower in the sky. He walked on to the beach. Black seaweed cracked under his feet, dried out from the sun and the frost. The waves fell in a droning murmur. The ocean was calm, unusual for Hrímland. Náskáraey loomed ahead of him. It wasn’t a proper island, more like a cluster of cliffs jutting out of the ocean, close to each other. The rocks were sheer, so thin and tall that one could hardly deem them to be islands. But the cliffs had always been named as a single place, one of the oldest homes of náskárar in Hrímland. Their capital, so to speak.

  The earth shook as two náskárar landed right in front of him, laden with iron. Blóðgögl, as he justly suspected. They were considerably taller than him, despite stooping. One of them could barely keep his head aloft due to the sharp lump of iron that was fused to the upper side of his beak. The iron was dark, coarse and uneven, like lava that had only recently hardened.

  “Away,” one of them cawed.

  The náskárar strutted back and forth on the rocky beach, each step screeching from their iron talons. Their walk was uneven, mostly supporting themselves on the krummafótur, which was much larger than the other two legs, its claw big enough to carry grown sheep or men aloft.

  “No humans. Away.”

  Sæmundur raised his hands and showed that he was no threat. He wondered how different náskárar were from humans – if they could hear the demon fused in his flesh, whispering. It was too late to worry about that now. He felt Bektalpher’s sensitive and bloated lips move, ceaselessly chanting the incantations that held Kölski back.

  “I am Sæmundur. Rotsvelgur sent for me. This is regarding my debt to him.”

  The one that had spoken regarded him inquisitively. As if he was considering if it was worth the trouble to devour this little vermin or not. Sæmundur stared down the long beak, not buckling under the heavy and crushing stare.

  “He left me a rat king,” Sæmundur added.

  The náskári tilted its head, turning to the one which was heavily ironed on his beak, spitting out a question in skramsl that Sæmundur didn’t quite catch. The iron beak replied that Rotsvelgur would want to meet this one, in what Sæmundur felt was like a harsh tone. He was too unfamiliar with the náskárar tongue. If he didn’t focus completely every caw sounded like an ugly, warped sound that couldn’t possibly have some sort of meaning behind it.

  The iron beak turned to Sæmundur and spoke in a voice so rough it could hardly be deciphered as Hrímlandic.

  “Go. You will pay.” This was not a question.

  “I’m here to settle my debt, yes.”

  The iron beak took a threatening step towards him, ruffling his wings.

  “You – pay.”

  He took flight with a powerful beat of his wings. The other one followed, but not after also giving Sæmundur a threatening stare.

  Sæmundur sighed and kept walking towards the island. He had never been to Hræfuglaey before; usually he met Rotsvelgur in Reykjavík. As he came closer he noticed sun-faded ropes hanging down the length of the cliff. Next to the ropes dangled a tattered rope ladder that went all the way to the top. The wooden steps were badly made and looked as if they would break under the smallest strain. Clearly the náskárar didn’t care if their ground-dwelling visitors made it up or fell down to their deaths. Sæmundur was certain that they would have preferred to murder him where he stood and feed their hatchlings fresh meat. But he owed the hersir and that was more a matter of honour than money. To a náskári, Sæmundur as good as belonged to the hersir until his debt was paid. To murder him would be like killing livestock – restitution would be owed to its owner, should that occur. Sæmundur took hold of the rope ladder and s
lowly made his way up.

  When Sæmundur moved to the city he’d quickly started smoking moss, which is what led to his connection to Rotsvelgur. They’d done a lot of business while Sæmundur attended the Learned School. He started selling to the students, who were mostly too afraid or prejudiced to deal directly with a náskári. The náskárar were prolific up north, where a clan ruled over each fjord, their power struggles constantly in motion but rarely interfering with human society. Mostly they left the farmers alone; the humans had picked up a few of their customs and knew how to approach the ravenfolk with honour and respect. Sæmundur used that to his advantage in Reykjavík, where the náskárar remained elusive and threatening. When Sæmundur graduated and moved abroad, Rotsvelgur had just made his way to power in Those-who-pluck-the-eyes-of-the-ram, after months of internal fighting. Rotsvelgur had slain his own father, a great bird of prey and hersir of many decades. To fall to your own offspring was not a disgrace among náskárar, it was a noble and good fate. It meant that the young were worth something, that the future was theirs to claim – not to suggest that the parents wouldn’t fight for their lives with iron and claw. Many great tribal leaders killed their offspring in droves, but they never attacked them first. The initiative to murder and coup belonged to the youth.

  After many years of study abroad, Sæmundur came back to Reykjavík and attended Svartiskóli. Rotsvelgur had stamped the other tribes down into the muck. Greater Reykjavík belonged to him, there was no denying it. Sæmundur had started selling for Rotsvelgur again, dealing directly with him as if nothing had changed, which was unique. Only his underlings dealt with humans and huldufólk directly, like Hræeygður, who had apparently sold Katrín sorti. Sæmundur didn’t know why he’d been deserving of this exception and hadn’t given it a great deal of thought. Until Rotsvelgur had demanded galdur of him. Now, as he clambered up the unforgiving cliffs of Hræfuglaey, blowing in the unpredictable wind, he wished he’d asked himself that sooner.