Then a voice that was not entirely human spoke.
Everything came to a halt. Nothing moved. The only sound was that measured rhythm of an unseen voice, those sharp syllables that unravelled reality. A dark blast blinded Sæmundur and for a moment nothing existed except this inversion, this blinding void, and then the world was pulled again over his consciousness like a veil.
Two blóðgögl jumped off from the walls above Sæmundur, diving with their jagged claws extended. One was knocked away by an unseen force, thrown against the stone wall with a sickening crack. The other one dived into Sæmundur, but his claws found no purchase, as if he had attacked a stone pillar instead of a human being. With a sharp spoken word, the skin on the náskári’s back fissured open, erupting with blood, and the blóðgagl fell on the ground, writhing and twitching as it died in a pool of its own blood. The third blóðgagl jumped down in front of Sæmundur, crouching and pouncing with the krummafótur, coming at him beak-first. A wall of darkness burst from the ground, tethered to Sæmundur in long black coils. He ducked, and the náskári missed, crashing to the floor and sliding limply forward, the vivid darkness pooling rapidly towards it like ravenous carrion-eaters.
Sólsvertnir was lying on the ground. His feathers had lost their lustre and Sæmundur no longer felt disoriented looking at them. In front of him stood Kölski, now manifested from the shadow. He wasn’t sure who had spoken the incantation – himself, the demon in front of him or the demon inside him. Partly he felt that there was no distinction to be made. Not a single náskári moved. Everything was still. They were too terrified.
Rotsvelgur’s feathers were agitated with rage. He stared down at the man, or what he thought was a man, and the grinning demon at his feet. For the first time in the years Sæmundur had known Rotsvelgur, he truly feared the náskári and what he might do to enact his vengeance.
“Sólsvertnir,” Rotsvelgur said after a while. “Rise.”
The skrumnir raised himself, shaking like a feeble elder. Sæmundur noticed that he had been mistaken before, Sólsvertnir’s feathers were as dangerous and lustrous as before, the seiðmagn flowing from them like a fresh delýsíð painting Garún had made. But something was different. Something had changed.
Then he realised it. It was he himself who had changed. Not Sólsvertnir.
“What did the bones tell you?’ Rotsvelgur asked, without taking his eyes off Sæmundur. “What was the judgement?’
The skrumnir spoke in a weak voice. Not a soul stirred in the great hall.
“What has been bound in blood and locked in bone has spoken. The human carries –’ he said a word Sæmundur couldn’t quite understand – “in himself. Will that be both curse and blessing to us. He stands blinded at the cave mouth, ruin is within his power and the foulest sorcery. He has shown his nature with shed blood, but no more will come of it. He means the tribe no ill. He will birth a horror into this world to end the iron fortress. Kalmar will not seek us because of his malevolence. But untold innocent lambs will pay with their blood. As is the nature of the world.”
“Very well.”
Rotsvelgur stepped forward and picked up a great spear that was lying hidden in the iron nest that was his throne. Sæmundur noticed something that, to his mind, didn’t belong in this scrap metal heap. Hidden in the middle of the pile were a few speckled indigo eggs.
“Sæmundur, I name you a malefactor and harbinger of ruin,” said Rotsvelgur slowly in skramsl. “I accept your galdur as payment of your debt and the one you call Melsteð, with the condition that you never set foot here and never consort with Those-who-pluck-the-eyes-of-the-ram again. Our association is at an end. Your debt shall be considered paid in full. Do you accept these terms, and that you shall pay its violation ninefold?’
“I accept.”
“Then go your way, illvættur.”
He spat out that last word in Hrímlandic. Naming him as a malevolent spirit.
Sæmundur turned around and walked back out. Kölski followed in his footsteps. As he exited the hall he heard the thud of a spear hitting the ground behind him. Outside the crowing of the náskárar had stopped and the sky was cleared of soaring dark shapes. Countless dark eyes glared at him as he crossed the bridge. The waves crashed on the rocks below.
Tuttugu og níu
They went over the plan daily. Every step had to be carefully planned – there could be no room for hesitation or doubt when the time came. Garún had been intentionally vague about Sæmundur’s part in all this. All she told them was that he had a method to disable Loftkastalinn and cause an evacuation at Lögrétta, and that the less they knew, the better. She hadn’t heard anything from him. She wasn’t happy, but she had to trust that he would be able to deliver.
“All right, if Kryik’traak doesn’t show, we’ll make a run for the harbour here,” said Katrín as they went over the escape route yet again. The cave was damp and cold. They sat on rucksacks around a crate they used for a table. It was covered with roughly drawn maps. “But likely that will end with us being captured within the hour. We need the náskárar for extraction.”
“I still haven’t heard anything,” said Garún. “I’m not sure if they’ll get back to us in time. They did show up at the protests, both times, without any communication with our group. So they might keep an eye on us.”
“What do you mean?’ asked Hraki. “Do they know where we’re setting up the ambush?’
“No,” said Garún, “we’ll just have to hope we can flag them down, that they’ll help fight anyone in pursuit of us.”
“Right. Not exactly the best plan of action. But if we find ourselves surrounded by soldiers they might come to our aid.”
Styrhildur shuffled the maps around.
“Do you really think that with Loftkastalinn damaged and a captured stiftamtmaður, the people will rise up against the Commonwealth?’ she asked.
The question sounded general, but was aimed at Katrín.
“There were a lot of people at the protest,” Katrín said. “Regular humans. People died. Like I said before Diljá and Hrólfur left, Lögrétta will seize the opportunity. If they won’t, the people will rally again and demand it for themselves.”
“And we’ll force Trampe to sign a declaration of self-governance,” said Hraki.
Katrín snorted. “Right. I somehow doubt that. Trampe is infamous for his stubbornness. He won’t do a damn thing. And it won’t hold up, anyway. It’s just paper. Taking him hostage will mostly come in handy for negotiations when Kalmar wants to retaliate.”
“And what will we do then?’
Garún shrugged. “Pray. Most of the military is stationed in Loftkastalinn, but they have barracks in Viðey and Seltjarnarnes. They’ve weaponised the police. If we can overpower them, we can claim their weapons. There are walls surrounding the city on all fronts. We could endure a siege, if it comes to it. Threaten to sabotage Perlan if they won’t negotiate.”
Styrhildur shook her head. “This is so fucking insane.”
“Right.”
A short while later Kryik’traak arrived and called out to them. It was time for today’s firing drill. Without a word they took off everything except their undergarments, put on the jellyfish and swam after the marbendill.
The caves under the Elliðaár rivers were plentiful and most of them abandoned. Kryik’traak led them to an elongated cave, almost a kind of tunnel, which suited them well for practising. They practised loading and firing the muzzle-loading guns.
The weapons were Kryik’traak’s gift to them. The Crown occasionally shipped boatloads of ruined weapons down the Elliðaár, either for repairs or to sell for scrap iron or parts. It was all kinds of equipment, most of it so badly damaged that it couldn’t be salvaged. From an entire heap of garbage the marbendlar had managed to scrounge together materials for a few usable pistols.
Kryik’traak’s comrade, Aktarív’letar, taught them how to use the weapons. They would have been absolutely helpless without her aid. She knew how m
uch gunpowder was supposed to be used for each shot, that you had to press it properly with the ramrod. She knew how the catch could be set to safety, and how they could fire quickly in case they encountered sudden combat. Garún hadn’t even realised that the ramrod was kept in the gun itself, just below the barrel like a sheathed sword. To their surprise, Styrhildur showed some familiarity with handling the weapons. When they asked her how she knew so much about muzzle-loading guns, she replied that she had once had a job at a workshop that specialised in fixing up old stuff, including the Commonwealth’s old equipment. That was all she would say on the matter, and that was good enough for them.
This firing drill was a test of resilience. One at a time they took turns in firing at sacks filled with sand. Garún did all right, but Katrín was clearly the best of the group. Her shots rarely missed, only excepting the longest range. After the training Garún started covering herself in a special type of fat that was kept in one of the sacks in their cave. It was whale blubber, processed by marbendlar for sale to humans. It reeked, but it was infused with crushed herbs, which Garún suspected were thaumaturgical in nature. The blubber insulated her completely, allowing her to swim in the freezing water without feeling it. When she’d covered every part of herself she tied a waterproof skin around her waist and dived in.
She could find her way in and out from memory now. She’d started following Kryik’traak out to train herself, and had gone back and forth until she knew the way by heart. Each night she headed out for a short excursion. In the skin she kept the audioskull and spray cans filled with clear delýsíð.
She enjoyed swimming by the dark river bottom. At times she saw marbendlar swimming in the distance, but they never approached her. She suspected that their presence there was a well-kept secret and she liked the thought that someone was on their side. Underwater was a new world, filled with tranquillity and peace. Sometimes she could see the bright moon through the rough river surface.
That night Kryik’traak found her swimming in the river depths. He motioned for her to follow him to the surface. He told her that a man had approached him that night, the same man she had met a few days earlier. His negotiations had been successful.
Loftkastalinn would fall in two days’ time.
Þrjátíu
Sæmundur drove the last post down into the shallow hole and righted it by piling rocks around its base. The wind was sharp and relentless. The third horse’s head was larger than the others and difficult to lift up to the stake. His breath was short and his hands trembled from the weight. He almost dropped the head, but eventually he managed to lift it on top of the stake so that it was securely in place.
A níðstöng was simply a gateway, a guiding post that directed forces from beyond into this world. It was up to the galdramaður to raise the post correctly and recite his incantations well enough that the weapons would not turn in his hands. Níðstangir had rarely been successfully used, as far as human knowledge went. The ritual was incredibly difficult and known to few people. Only the most vile users of svartigaldur in Hrímland would dare to cast this galdur, as more often than not the ritual failed in a catastrophic manner. No matter who was on the receiving end of a níðstöng’s power, the result would be complete disaster, without exception. Even now, not a single blade of grass would grow on the land of Skálholt’s former temple, due to the níðstöng that had been raised there in ancient times.
He took a step back and considered the three posts. Bloody and empty-eyed horses’ heads were impaled on top of each one, their mouths hanging half-open as if they were trying to say something. It had taken him a considerable time to cut the ritual circle into the turf around the níðstangir. Still harder had it been to dig for the posts, as the earth was half-frozen. Eventually he had managed to dig deep enough that they would be stable. He had grown weak and would have preferred to use galdur or what little he knew of seiður to make the work easier. But every apprentice knew that the portal into this world had to be firmly connected to reality, a solid anchor that would hold the galdramaður steady in the raging tempest to come, which he could neither sense nor understand. Sæmundur knew that his perception of galdur was by now considerably clearer than with most other galdramenn, alive or dead, but he still saw no reason to take any unnecessary risks.
Sæmundur started the ritual by carving the lips, tongues and eyes off the heads while he hummed ancient verses to himself. Kölski was standing nearby, intently watching in silence. They were in Öskjuhlíð, away from plain sight but still far enough from the trees to have a clear view from the hilltop over the city. Spread out before them was Reykjavík, the city that cowered underneath the tower of Haraldskirkja, and above all of it – Loftkastalinn.
Öskjuhlíð was covered with a dense forest that few dared to explore. The trees were twisted and gnarled, constantly moving, even when the weather was completely still. The forest was home to countless creatures. Some of them had perhaps once been foxes, skoffín or small birds, but the seiðmagn had long since turned them into something unrecognisable. Even after Perlan was built and the thing under the hill had been harnessed, its influence could still be seen in the forest. The creatures kept to the hill, addicted to the faint residue of seiðmagn the thing radiated. Every year corpses were found on the outskirts of the forest, usually teenagers or hobos. This was a cursed place.
Sæmundur hadn’t detected anything as he walked up the overgrown hill a short while before, a heavy and bloody sack over his shoulder. As he cut down three trees and carved them into sharp stakes the forest kept quiet, holding its breath. Now that he had finished the opening ceremony of the ritual he felt how the power in the earth amassed at his back. He was no seiðskratti, but he knew well the power of seiðmagn. An overwhelming presence came over him and he knew that the unearthly thing in Öskjuhlíð, trapped in the technological slavery of Perlan, wished nothing more than to assist him, to take revenge upon the city that had numbed and killed the land since colonisation. But even if he heeded its call and unleashed its power, it would not help him. Seiður was of this world. The power he was summoning was beyond the material, beyond all definition.
The preparation was complete; the ritual could start in earnest. He chanted the forbidden names of the void.
Svöl. Gunnþrá.
The knife’s edge ran smoothly down his hand.
Fjörm.
With a bloodied finger he drew symbols on the disfigured horses’ heads.
Fimbulþul. Slíður. Hríð. Sylgur. Ylgur. Víð. Leiftur. Gjöll.
Eleven names, eleven keys.
A gust of wind ran through the forest. Everything became still. The sky was grey and flat, the clouds were too close and too large. The circle had been sealed.
He took off his coat and neatly folded it. The stinking, worn shirt he wore had once almost been too small. Now it was draped on him as if on a hanger. When had he last eaten? It didn’t matter. He’d left worldly sensations behind. He placed the shirt next to the coat and took his place in front of the níðstangir. It was cold enough that he could see his breath steaming in the air, but he felt nothing against his bare flesh.
Bektalpher’s gaping maw was dark and swollen. Useless, jagged teeth jutted out of dark red gums and a three-forked tongue moved around them. The flesh around the mouth reeked, as if infested with rot. The veins were black and visibly pulsated. The demon was a growing tumour. Bektalpher breathed loudly, idle now that Kölski could roam free.
He closed his eyes and listened. Silence. Total silence. The forest, the city, the land held their breaths. He did the same. Then he filled his lungs with air and started to sing – að gala.
Tone. Steady and reliable. Deep. Up a minor second. Down a minor third. Then, up an augmented fourth. The tritone, diabolus in musica. The key to the ritual. Down a major seventh. Hold the tone. No words, no incantations, only sound – hljóð.
All his life Sæmundur had been taught that galdur was incomprehensible, but still rigidly bound into incantations
and rituals, ceremonies where the most minute deviation could end the galdramaður. Doctrine and ideas set in stone were a hindrance; they were as limiting as the academics’ refusal to let galdramenn experiment or their fear of demons. But he now understood that they were partially right in Svartiskóli. Mastering the fundamentals, holding every detail in your mind simultaneously, was critical. Sæmundur hadn’t learned from Kölski how to raise a níðstöng, but he also didn’t need to. The tools were already in his hands, ready to be used with the right knowledge behind them. So he did what he had been indoctrinated never to do – he improvised the galdur. He had been experimenting with improvising, that night he played in the Forgotten Downtown, when he met Garún. But that was nothing like this. Then, the galdur had no purpose except to cause ecstasy and hallucinations, a form of metapsychosis, a rather simple and unremarkable effect. Now, he meant to bridge the void between the real and the unreal.
Bektalpher chanted rapidly. The demon spoke in tongues like a holy man touched by spirits. But the sounds the abomination made were not words, they had no meaning aside from their rhythm, frequency and volume. Sæmundur’s steady and deep tone provided the foundation Bektalpher built upon. Sæmundur stretched his last tone as far as he could, let it lethargically drop by a semitone. The sound waves reverberated through him entirely, growing stronger and stretching with the dropping tone.
Dissonance.
An enormous pressure overcame him as he felt the galdur open up to something else, a new source. Bektalpher tuned in with him so that he could no longer feel if he or the demon were chanting, or if another energy had taken over. Sæmundur felt odd, like when his consciousness had been split twice, thrice, when stealing the page from Rauðskinna. He both spoke in his own voice and controlled Bektalpher simultaneously. But he could not overthink what he was doing, could not structure the spell too much. The galdur had to be raw, untamed chaos. True to its nature.
Shadows of the Short Days Page 35
