A gust of wind grabbed hold of his coat and he almost lost his footing. Despite appearances the ladder was sturdy, although in bad condition and rarely used.
He hoisted himself to the top of the cliff and lay there for a moment, exhausted. Pale yellow grass sprouted between the rocks, spattered with moss and bird droppings. The two náskárar were waiting for him, silent and motionless. Their feathers ruffled in the wind. Sæmundur started to get up, but started coughing so badly that he collapsed back into the grass. The coughing fit tore at his lungs deeply and he tasted blood. He thought of Bektalpher, of the wound on his chest which was even now whispering curses with a voice from another world than this one. He wondered if they shared lungs or if the demon had grown its own. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that it worked.
Finally he got a hold on himself and breathed normally. He looked into his hand and expected to see blood. Instead there was a thick, black ichor, which he quickly wiped into the earth. He didn’t know if it was caused by the demon in him or the amount of highland moss he had smoked, and he didn’t care to know.
The náskárar led him to the centre of the island, toward a gaping cavern. At first it looked to be naturally formed, but when Sæmundur looked closer he saw that its edges were too curved, its form too regular. A circular staircase went down into the darkness. One náskári started walking down the stone stairs with loud clunks. Sparks flew with each step. Sæmundur looked up at the swarm of náskárar in the sky, over to the other island cliffs where they hung in droves like black soot. He wondered if any man had made it back alive from these catacombs.
“Move!’ the iron beak spat.
When Sæmundur didn’t move immediately the náskári jabbed him with his beak, causing him to stumble and almost fall down the steep staircase, where he would definitely have broken his neck. The other náskári was already out of sight, around the corner.
The tunnels were just wide enough for two náskárar to meet and pass each other. Small holes were carved into the walls where tallow candles burned. The tunnels were perfectly round, seeming rather to have been shaped like clay than carved out. Dense rows of incomprehensible hrafnaspark were etched into its surface, covering the entire circumference of the tunnel. Sæmundur had intended to learn the náskárar script but had given up when he realised how alien their method of writing was. Every letter was a sound, but also a specific word, which could be read from right to left, left to right, up, down, diagonally, however you wanted, constantly and consistently revealing new meanings its author had intended. He was surrounded by a woven tapestry of words, a dense net he neither felt or understood.
The air carried with it the potent stench of rotten meat and wet animals. The tunnels split several times, but each path looked the same, dark and empty, every inch of surface covered with writing. Sæmundur could not keep count of how often they turned, one náskári ahead of him and the other just behind him. All he knew was that they were heading down.
The tunnels suddenly ended in a sheer drop. He was faced with grey daylight and the sound of crashing waves and the shouts of the ravenfolk. A weathered rope bridge danced in the wind, reaching out to the next cliff island. The drop to the ocean was significant. He must be higher up than Haraldskirkja, despite making his way down from the top. The náskári ahead of him had taken a step aside and was hanging off the side of the cliff like a gargoyle. Náskárar filled the air like swarms of enormous flies, crowing and shouting.
“Forward,” the iron beak crowed behind him.
Sæmundur didn’t wait to be pushed a second time and walked out onto the bridge.
The bridge was in absolute disrepair, looking even worse than the rope ladder. He focused on not looking down, but then he did and the vertigo hit him so hard he almost lost his balance.
“The flesh is weak,” he mumbled to himself. “The spirit is willing though the flesh is weak.”
The wind rushed around him as náskárar flew over and under him, shouting and cawing. Posturing or curious at the sight of the stranger, or perhaps only passing by, indifferent to his being there. The fear of heights was unfamiliar to them.
This island was much older than the other one. Its cavern walls were rougher and the hrafnaspark covering it was more weathered. The faded carvings were like ripples on water. He was surrounded by the language of the náskárar and the feeling filled him with dread. Nobody better knows the power of language than a galdramaður.
They entered a hall, the ceiling shrouded with darkness. Sæmundur was beset by náskárar on each side. They were hanging from the cavern walls, filling up the alcoves that lined each side. They sat in nests made from shining metals, coloured glass and corrugated plates of iron, or stood like statues on their krummafótur, the claws on the other legs free to carve bone, sharpen tools, pick meat off bones. A menacing chatter erupted as he entered and every náskári turned to get a look at him. This was where the greatest warriors of the tribe resided. One such blóðgagl had an iron beak covered with long, sharp nails, another had a sawtoothed horn at the end of his beak. Every single náskári was heavily decorated with jewellery and bones. Sæmundur tried to spot the difference between male and female corvians, but could not see it. In the middle of the cavern was a roaring fire. The floor was covered with junk and carcasses picked clean. Cows, sheep and other things Sæmundur did not want to look too closely at. He and his guards headed straight to Rotsvelgur’s throne at the end of the hall, where he waited alongside his closest court members and councillors.
Rotsvelgur loomed over the other náskárar, who all but cowered in his presence. The helskurn and infused beak and talons already made him look like a living weapon, coupled with the morbid trophies he displayed on his hertygi. As Sæmundur approached the hersir he felt the emanations of the galdur loaded in Rotsvelgur’s armour radiate off him, a sickening wave of fear and awe.
Rotsvelgur’s closest council was comprised of aged warriors, covered with scars and laden with symbols of victory, some of the oldest members with spots of rust in their iron. All of them were blóðgögl, except one, the náskári sitting closest to Rotsvelgur. The tribe’s skrumnir was barely taller than Sæmundur, dressed in dark grey cloth, making him seem like a spectre or a monstrous creature out of legend.
Sæmundur halted at a respectable distance from Rotsvelgur. The hersir stood up when he saw who had arrived. The throne, if it could be called so, was a great nest made from scrap iron, fused together in the unique náskárar method. The iron beak who had escorted Sæmundur announced his arrival in skramsl and the chatter increased. Rotsvelgur let loose a single caw and the noise died out instantly.
“Sæmundrr,” Rotsvelgur said in rough Hrímlandic, “arr þérr arriv’d to pay the skuld?’
“Hail and well met, Rotsvelgur. I received your message and have come to offer you a settlement. For my hand and for the hand of Katrín Melsteð, the debtor of Hræeygður.”
For a while the only sound came from the sparking of the fire.
“Skuld arr great,” Rotsvelgur said eventually. “Higher after … faulty smithing þérr ha’t work’d.”
He especially enunciated those two words, glaring maliciously at Sæmundur. Something had gone wrong with the galdur he’d performed – or Rotsvelgur was bluffing. He was wearing the armour, so it had to be working in some regard. Sæmundur was not about to get hustled into even deeper debt.
“The skuld of other …’
He nodded to a náskári hanging from the wall. A young, ironed blóðgagl. That must be Hræeygður. He crowed some kind of amount in skramsl. Sæmundur didn’t quite catch it, but it sounded like a high number. Rotsvelgur feigned surprise at the amount of the debt.
“Arr-at small. But – þérr shall’t settle?’
“Yes,” said Sæmundur, keeping his manner calm and natural. “I have come on behalf of the people you have stood with against the Crown in the last two protests. The people who died with you on Austurvöllur, rising up against Kalmar.”
; At this there was an eruption of noise around him, as outrage moved the náskárar. He must tread carefully. He had no idea of the political machinations which had led to the Ram Eaters showing up at the protests, nor of how he should speak of those who had died in them.
“For too long Kalmar has oppressed us. We intend to strike back.”
Rotsvelgur started strutting back and forth in front of Sæmundur, his claws hitting the nest of scrap iron.
“Ok hvat use shall’t ek ha’t of such weaklings? Reykjavík belong’t to Krxgraak’úrrtek!’
At this the náskárar roared, crowing and shouting and slamming their talons against the rock.
“It is true that Those-who-pluck-the-eyes-of-the-ram are the most powerful tribe,” said Sæmundur, once they had settled down. “Those-who-pluck-the-eyes-of-the-ram justly call the city of Reykjavík their territory. But one soars above every náskári. Kalmar now rules the skies, which once were your sole dominion! With Loftkastalinn and their biplanes!’
The náskárar went berserk. No one insults a náskári, let alone in his own hall. Rocks, scrap iron and gnawed bones rained over him. Rotsvelgur stood still, quiet. Silently waiting, like a raven waits for a lamb to get separated from its flock.
“Do I speak falsehoods?’ Sæmundur shouted, and defended himself against the junk that rained over him, tried to overpower the noise. “Have they not, with biplanes and the flying fortress itself, ruled over the skies since they arrived?’
He wanted to keep going, but held back. He was dangerously close to being eviscerated, gouged with a beak or a claw and turned into a trophy to be hung from someone’s hertygi.
“Did they not ruthlessly kill brave blóðgögl without retribution? Well, I offer you the ultimate retribution!’ Sæmundur shouted in a grave voice. “I will bring down Loftkastalinn – in the name of Those-who-pluck-the-ram’s-eyes!’
The assembly laughed. A cascade of mocking, ugly sounds, horribly mimicking the human emotions behind it. Only Rotsvelgur did not caw at Sæmundur, staring heavily at him. The noise died down and the náskárar turned towards their hersir for an answer. Rotsvelgur remained silent, which Sæmundur took as a sign he could continue.
“Loftkastalinn is an abomination. A machine of war and destruction, drawing its power from the sorcerous energies in the land itself. Violence must be met with violence, fire with fire. This, every being knows – the náskárar doubly so. I will do what must be done to bring it down. I will make an abomination to bring down the abomination. For you I will raise a níðstöng, Rotsvelgur.” The word slithered through the air like a malevolent spirit. “A svartigaldur so potent it will remove the flying fortress from the face of the earth.”
“Þérr err-at with honour,” said Rotsvelgur, his words echoing through the hall, “to come hérr, to vor hall, deman’t to pay’t skuld wit’ forneskju ok ruin the honour of Krxgraak’úrrtek.”
Sæmundur bowed deeply before the hersir.
“I did not intend to disparage your honour or the honour of Those-who-pluck-the-eyes-of-the-ram. You are without denial the strongest tribe in the greater Reykjavík area. But that doesn’t change the fact that the Crown makes a mockery of you. It is obvious how great a thorn they are in your side. The truth does not belittle anyone. But I can change that. I can help you reclaim the sky.”
Rotsvelgur still remained elusive to Sæmundur. He was hard to read. Still, years of camaraderie had something to show. He knew Rotsvelgur was intrigued. He only had to find a way to get him to accept without losing face.
“I know that galdur is an affront to your ways. But I am not suggesting that Those-who-pluck-the-ram’s-eyes sully their talons with it. It is a low, dishonourable weapon – a human weapon. One human weapon to be used against another. That seems just to me.”
“Þérr lie’t,” he said. “Þérr megn-at that galdr.”
“I am not lying.”
Rotsvelgur ignored his claim.
“Hví shoul’t þérr raise forneskja against Kalmar?’ asked Rotsvelgur. “Ok hví on vor behalf ?’
“The debts I seek to pay are great, which calls for a great offering. The people who fought with you also need your help in the battle to come against Kalmar. Ensuring your supremacy over the skies will be in their benefit for the long term. Besides, we have a long history of mutual, beneficial trading.” Sæmundur tried not to sound as if he was attempting flattery. “I must uphold my honour – and yours. It is clear to me that Kalmar is now the only thing standing in your way. Which means that Loftkastalinn was the only target that could ever be considered. That is why I offer my chosen profession – galdur.”
“Lies!’ one náskári screeched in skramsl.
He was an ancient blóðgagl with such a great and heavy lump of iron on his beak that he could barely keep his head up. His feathers were faded and tattered, spots of rust in his iron claws and beak.
“If this human is telling the truth, if he can raise a níðstöng and contain –’ Sæmundur didn’t quite catch what he said – “-then it is for nothing!’
The corvian jumped down from his rock sill, stumbled towards Sæmundur in his odd three-legged gait and stopped right in front of him. It took everything Sæmundur had to hold his ground and not retreat from the threatening charge.
“Nothing!’ the náskári screamed in his face and turned to Rotsvelgur. “Where do you think the Crown would look first? Where would they next point their spears?’
Sæmundur had a hard time keeping up with the skramsl. If only human vocal cords were capable of properly pronouncing the náskárar language; he would be able to connect with them so much better if he spoke their tongue.
What about Bektalpher? he thought to himself. Would he be able to? Surely he must be able to generate non-human vocal sounds. He had to experiment on this later, in private.
“That’s enough, Græðgnir,” said Rotsvelgur, but the old warrior kept on.
“It is not our way, krrxgkh-hraak. The malevolent poetry has been forbidden for generations!’
“Hold back your tongue, as you only speak what every single one of us is thinking!’
“Krrxgkh-hraak, I only—”
“I said silence!’
For a moment it was as if Rotsvelgur himself had flared up in a roaring blaze. The entire assembly recoiled, some náskárar letting out involuntary caws. For a moment, Rotsvelgur’s voice and posture had commanded such fear and dominance that the entire room had succumbed to it. Græðgnir ruffled his feathers and tensed, as if he was about to challenge Rotsvelgur, but then flew up to one of the alcoves. Sæmundur suspected why Rotsvelgur wasn’t entirely satisfied with the galdur he’d bound into the helskurn. It seemed way too potent, and possibly volatile. Rotsvelgur tilted his head, weighing the matter.
“Sólsvertnir!’
The hunched skrumnir came hobbling from the shadows behind the hersir, a wretch dressed in tatters. He looked like a runt next to the other proud warriors, but Sæmundur noticed that they still gave way, avoiding confrontation at any cost. They were frightened. It was a rare occasion when a náskári was born different from the rest, with a special feathered cape and breast shield they could raise up in a large, elliptical form. The feathers were coloured a vibrant azure, laced with seiðmagn, allowing them to devour either the mind or memory of whoever gazed upon them. These deviations became nearly without exception the tribe’s skrumnir, powerful seiðskrattar that acted as the hersir’s closest advisors. The skrumnir was also the tribe’s chief blacksmith, using their unique form of seiður to bind molten iron to the náskárar’s bodies.
Sólsvertnir bowed before Rotsvelgur, spreading out his wings, and addressed him formally.
Krrxgkh-hraak. Lord-master. Hersir.
They whispered among themselves. Sæmundur felt dizzy from the skrumnir’s presence, now that he was closer. He almost glowed from the seiðmagn. Sæmundur thought of the power loaded in the blue-black feathers and felt a shiver run down his spine. But he did not avert his eyes, did not show any s
igns of weakness.
“I have known you for a long time, Sæmundur,” said Rotsvelgur in skramsl, making sure to speak slowly and clearly enough that Sæmundur could understand him. “And I have not found any reason to suspect you of malice. So far.” He spread out his wings, raised his head back. “What you suggest might spell the end of Krxgraak’úrrtek – or our salvation. We will glean what the future holds. Sólsvertnir!’ he crowed out over the hall. “Exercise the judgement of bones!’
The skrumnir ruffled around in his tattered robes and threw a clawful of bones on the floor. Ribs, jaws, skulls and bones of various shapes and sizes. Sólsvertnir huddled over the bones, investigating their layout and the shadows they cast carefully. Another náskári handed him a writhing sack and from it the skrumnir pulled a raven, tied at its beak and claws. The raven fruitlessly batted its wings. Sólsvertnir held the bird upside down over the bones and with a perfunctory movement decapitated it with one claw. Dark blood rained over the pale bones.
Sæmundur was familiar with this type of prophecy, but did not know the náskárar method specifically. He could not start to imagine what Sólsvertnir saw. He held an incantation mentally readied, a loaded gun or a dormant volcano, transformative words ready to erupt from his tongue and reshape the world.
Sólsvertnir pushed an occasional bone around with a long claw, contemplatively. He looked up at Sæmundur, right into his eyes. Then back to the bones, as if to verify something. Hesitantly, almost fearfully, the skrumnir glanced at Rotsvelgur’s chest – his helskurn – and down at Sæmundur’s feet. Where his shadow was cast in the wrong direction, towards the fire instead of away from it.
The skrumnir let loose a deafening screech and threw off his tatters. His blue-black feathers scintillated with an uncanny light, with streaks of turquoise so wondrous and maddening that Sæmundur couldn’t help staring. The skrumnir tensed up, his feathers ruffling, preparing to spread out his feathered cape and devour Sæmundur’s mind and memory. He couldn’t speak. He wanted to, but found himself completely frozen up.
Shadows of the Short Days Page 34
