by William King
The next day, as they approached the islands, Ragnar could see that they were afire. Their tops blazed. The molten orange spittle of the fire giants ran down their black sides and sizzled and steamed as it entered the water. The roaring of the imprisoned giants made them shake.
Filled with trepidation, Ragnar approached the sorcerer once more. He was reassured to see that the ancient showed no signs of fear, merely a quiet pleasure and a certain sadness, like that of a man who has been enjoying a journey and is not looking forward to its end.
“They say Ghorghe and Sla Nahesh are imprisoned within those islands,” Ragnar said, repeating something he had heard the skald say after the spring trading. Despite his fear, he was excited. Never before had he sailed this far with his father. “They say that Russ bound them there when the world was young.”
“Those are evil names, lad,” the sorcerer said. “You should not mention them.”
“Why?” said Ragnar, for once undaunted by the stranger. His curiosity overcoming his reverence. The stranger looked down at him and smiled. He did not seem displeased by the question.
“Those are the names of great evils, born in a place millions of leagues away, and many millennia in the past. Russ did not bind them. No one could. Not even the Emperor — the All Father himself — in the days of his glory.”
Ragnar was not surprised to be told of their age. After all, Russ had fought them in the dawn ages before he had banished his people from Asaheim. He was surprised to be told that they had been born millions of leagues away. It was a distance he could not conceive.
“I thought they were the children of the dragon goddess Skrinneir, of her marriage to the dark god, Horus.”
“And that is another name you should not speak, lad. For you have no idea of its true significance.”
“Will you tell me its meaning then?”
“No, lad, I will not. If it is your destiny to know such things, you will find them out soon enough.”
“And how will I do that?”
“By dying, laddie, and by being reborn.”
“Is that how you gained your great wisdom?” Ragnar asked, annoyed by the stranger’s response and surprised at the sarcasm of his own tone. To his surprise the stranger merely laughed.
“You have courage, youth, and no mistake.” He turned from Ragnar and gazed out to sea. Ahead of them dark clouds rose, and the sea was stained an oily black. To the west, the mountain shook, and a huge jet of fire emerged from its tip.
“The Fire Mountain is angry today,” the sorcerer said. “It is a bad sign.”
CHAPTER TWO
The Temple of Iron
“By Russ, have you ever seen anything like it?” Ulli asked, awe evident in his words. Ragnar looked at his Wolfbrother and shook his head. He was forced to admit that he had not.
The harbour was vast and strange, a huge deft in the black cliffs which led to a massive lake enclosed by a black beach. There was room enough there for a thousand dragonships to dock at once without it ever being crowded, and Ragnar knew that during the trade time it was so. People came from all across the great ocean to barter for axe heads, spear points and all manner of metal goods.
It was not the sheer scale of the harbour that held Ragnar’s attention so raptly. It was the buildings that surrounded it. The smallest of them was twice the size of the great long hall back home, which was the largest structure Ragnar had seen in his whole life. Much more strange was the fact that they were built from stone.
Stone, thought Ragnar and shuddered. It was near inconceivable. What if one of the great earthquakes came and sent them tumbling to the ground? Would not everyone inside be crushed to bloody pulp by the avalanche of falling rock? Those huge soot-blackened structures were death traps. Everyone knew it was only sensible to build a house as you would build a dragonship — from dragonhide leather around a frame of dragonbone. Or for sacred structures you might consider using precious wood, though it might burn if an oil lantern got tumbled in the quake. Ragnar had seen such things happen. Everyone had. The islands of Fenris were unstable and had been since before Russ had led his chosen people here.
It was madness to build out of stone but these people had. And not just from stone piled upon stone, the way you might make a drystone dyke. No, these buildings were made from huge blocks of dressed rock, carved into perfect cubes and placed in interlocking patterns. And judging by the great layers of soot encrusted on the buildings and the blackened moss on their sides, these structures were ancient. They looked old, weather-worn, like the most ancient runestones in the great ring atop Thunder Mountain. And the skald claimed those had been there since the dawn of time.
It was not just one huge building but there were hundreds of them, some large as hills. Through the roofs of others protruded mighty chimneys from which black smoke belched and giant flares of flame gouted.
“They have tamed the fire elementals,” said Ulli. “They are great magicians here.”
It certainly looked that way, Ragnar thought. These people assuredly did not fear fire either. They must be mighty magicians indeed, not to fear the trembling of the earth or the threat of fire. And how had they built these enormous halls? Did they use magic to sing the stones into place? Or did they make their captive daemon thralls do all the work? The power and skill at work here was awe-inspiring.
Still, Ragnar was not sure he would have liked to live here. The air tasted foul and acrid with the same chemical stink that came from the tanneries back home, only magnified and a thousand times worse. Billows of soot like black snowflakes drifted through the air and settled in their hair and clothing. The water was an odd colour, black and viscous-looking in some places, in others coloured red or green by effluents belched out of the black pipes that ran all the way to the harbour.
“Bones of Russ,” Ulli breathed. “Look at that!”
Ragnar glanced in the direction indicated by Ulli’s pointing finger and saw the most amazing thing. It was a tower built all of iron, one of the most precious of metals. It rose from the water’s edge. Looking at it closely, Ragnar could see the construction was odd. It was not solid. It was like a latticework of metal beams, like the skeleton around which a hall would be built. Except that here there was no dragonhide stretched around it. The frame was open to the air and to the elements, and you could see the intricate machinery it enclosed.
There were huge cogwheels and great metal arms that rose up and down in a regular rhythmic movement like the pulsing of a great heart. Black stuff, liquid and slimy, bubbled from pipes on the tip of the tower and rolled down long tubes to be gathered in wooden vats around the base. Small figures moved around constantly shifting the vats and emptying them with buckets. It was at once the oddest, most impressive and most baffling structure Ragnar had ever seen.
“Why do these people not fear the quakes?” Ragnar asked Ulli, more just to air his curiosity than because he expected any answer.
“Because they have no need to, laddie,” said the voice of the sorcerer. “These islands are stable and have been for centuries. They will be for many more.”
Ragnar’s mind rocked. The concept was awesome. A land which did not constantly shake and quiver like a leashed beast. A place where there was no threat of the earth opening and swallowing you. A haven from the greatest and most commonplace of all the disasters that afflicted Russ’s people. Could the inhabitants of these islands really be so blessed? Another thought struck Ragnar, the natural thought that would occur to any of his war-like people.
“Then why has no one taken them away from the inhabitants? The clans would kill to own such a safe haven. How have these people survived for so long without being overwhelmed?”
“You’ll see soon enough, laddie. You’ll see soon enough.” The stranger shook his head and seemed to be trying to contain his mirth.
“State your business, strangers, or prepare to die!” The islander’s voice was harsh and guttural and there was menace in every word. It was amplified by the metal
bullhorn he held in his hand that made it sound even flatter.
Ragnar gazed in wonder at the ships that had moved out from the island to meet them. Suddenly he felt very afraid. Truly here were vessels of great sorcery. The ships had no sails and were made of metal. How was it that they did not sink like stone? And what propelled them? Bound fire elementals? Perhaps that was why smoke billowed from the chimney at the rear of the ship. Such a thing seemed like an affront to the sea daemons but quite obviously it worked. Perhaps some odd pact had been made…
Before Ragnar’s father could reply, the sorcerer bounded up onto the prow and extended an army in greeting. “This is I, Ranek Icewalker. They have brought me here at my request. I would have speech with the Ironmaster.”
This announcement set off a flurry of activity on the decks of the metal ship. Several figures huddled together in consultation before the speaker raised his bullhorn again. “Word is that Ranek is dead. Are you some sea-ghost risen from the waters?”
This question sent a shiver of horror across the decks of the Spear of Russ. Ragnar could hear men move uneasily on their oarbenches. The sorcerer’s great booming laugh roared out over the water. “Do I look like a ghost? Do I sound like a ghost? Will my boot feel like that of a ghost when I kick your arse for your impudence?”
There was answering laughter from the deck of the other ship. “Then come ashore, Wolf Priest, and be welcome here. Bring your companions and we will feast.”
The strange ship performed a manoeuvre that seemed supernatural to Ragnar. Without turning it reversed direction and began to move backwards to the shore, all the while keeping the dragonship in sight. The beat of the oarmaster’s drum made the Spear of Russ spring to life as it made its way to dock.
Ragnar followed the Wolf Priest, if that was his title, through the streets, uncertain of quite why he was doing so, but determined to accompany him and ask questions for he never knew if he would get another such opportunity in this lifetime. The rest of the crew had gone to wait in a dockside tavern or scattered to wander the streets. Ragnar was on his own with the sorcerer.
Ragnar walked through streets covered in cobbled stones, through a maze of sooty buildings and cramped alleyways. The air tasted foul with the smell of smoke and acrid alchemical odours. The people were strange and new to him and talked in a dialect he did not understand. Many seemed small and hunched and undernourished. They were clad in tunics and britches of drab grey and brown and they carried no weapons. They collected scraps in the streets and hurried along bearing burdens and performing errands. Even here, on these islands rich with metal, there was poverty.
The rulers of the island were fewer and richer. All of them were garbed in metal armour and all of them carried blades of steel in scabbards of dragonhide leather. They were tall men, well-made, with dark skins and brown eyes. They nodded to him with distant politeness as he passed, and he responded in kind.
“Why are you following me, boy?” the Wolf Priest asked.
“Because I want to ask you questions.” The old man shook his head but he smiled, revealing those frightening fangs.
“It’s always questions, questions, at your age, isn’t it? Ask away.”
“Why did you come here? Or really, why did you pay us to bring you here? Could you not have used your magic instead?”
“I have no magic, boy. Not in the sense you mean.”
“But your talisman — the way you killed the dragon — it…”
“It was not magic. The ‘talisman’ as you call it was a weapon, like an axe or a spear, only more… complicated.”
“A weapon?”
“A weapon.”
“You are not a magician then?”
“Russ forbid, no! I know some you would call magicians, boy, and I would not change places with them for all the iron on these islands.”
“Why?”
“They bear a terrible burden.”
Ragnar was silent. It seemed evident that the old man would say no more. Ragnar was absolutely certain that Ranek’s iron talisman represented a powerful magic, whatever the Wolf Priest might say. They trudged on through the streets, past open shopfronts. Looking inside Ragnar could see that they were workshops filled with forges. The shadows of their interiors were brightened by the glow of red-hot metal. He could hear the clang of hammer on anvil and knew that it was in these places that the goods of the Iron Masters were made.
“You haven’t answered my first question,” Ragnar said, astonished by his own temerity.
“I’m not sure I can in a way that you would understand — or that I ought to.”
“Why not?”
The old man’s booming laugh echoed down the alleyways. Ragnar saw everyone turn to look at them, then make the sign of the hammer and look away.
“You’re not easily discouraged, are you, laddie?”
“No.”
“Fair enough. I was on a mission. There was an accident. My vessel was destroyed. I needed to get back here and make contact with my… brethren. To cross such an enormous distance quickly I needed your father’s ship, and for his aid he will be rewarded.”
“What was your mission?”
“I cannot tell you that,” Ranek said in a tone which brooked no argument.
“Was it for the gods?”
“It was for my gods.”
“Are not all gods the same? Everyone on the islands worships Russ and the All Father.”
“So do I, but in a different way from you.”
“How can that be?”
“One day, laddie, you may find out.”
“But not today?”
“No. Not today.”
They walked into a huge square atop the hill. It was rimmed around with massive buildings. Each was so broad as to seem squat even though it towered ten times the height of a man. The walls were carved in an odd fashion. Each of the massive stone blocks was carved with interlocking cogwheels. Metal pipes flowed in and out through the stonework, like clusters of huge worms emerging from the earth and plunging back in again. Soot blackened the walls, and from the pipes effluent had leaked in the past, staining the walls beneath with great blotches the colour of rust. From within came the sound of monstrous engines at work, a clattering and a banging as if giants struck furiously at enormous anvils. The smell of smoke and hot metal smote Ragnar’s nostrils. He wondered whether he was the only person in the whole teeming throng that minded the noise and the stink.
They strode across the square to the largest of the huge structures.
“This is the Iron Temple,” Ranek the Wolf Priest said softly. “And this is where we part our ways for now.”
Ragnar glanced up at the huge building. It was a squat, massive fortress but it dwarfed all the surrounding buildings. Arrow slits glared out from its walls like the eyes of a hungry beast. High atop the building was a great metal flower, as large as a dragonship. Ragnar could not begin to guess at its purpose.
Great metal-bound doors barred the way forward at the head of the ramp. Ragnar could tell by the smoothness and the indentations that many feet had passed this way over hundreds of years. Strange runes, most unlike any Ragnar had ever seen, were inscribed over its archway. Two sentries armed with metal tipped harpoons guarded the way. They seemed as if they were made of metal. Iron armour covered them like a second skin. Metal helmets guarded their heads. Shields of steel marked with the same runes as those above the door hung from their left arms.
“Are they your kin?” he asked Ranek. The old man’s head swung swiftly to look down at him. The keen eyes bored in Ragnar’s own. This close Ragnar realised how big the Wolf Priest was. He was considered tall and well-made among his folk but compared to this old man he was but the size of a child. Ranek was head and shoulders taller than he and would have been far more massive even without the odd armour that encased his body.
“No, laddie, the Iron Masters are kin only to themselves. There are no others like them on all the islands of the Great Ocean. They are a people apar
t.”
“I do not understand,” Ragnar said. “With all this metal and all this… magic, why have they not sought dominance over all the world. Surely they could achieve it?”
“The Iron Masters seek dominance over nothing save metal and fire. Conquest is not their way. They fight only to defend themselves. It is part of the Ancient Pact.”
“Pact?”
“Enough questions, laddie. I must go.”
“I hope that one day we will meet again, jarl,” Ragnar said seriously. The old man turned and looked down at him. There was an odd look in his eye.
“I like you lad, so I will give you some advice. Pray that we never meet again. For if we do, it will be on a day of doom for you.”
Something in the old man’s tone chilled Ragnar to the very bone. The words were uttered with all the force of a prophesy. “What do you mean? Will you kill me?”
“You will know if ever it happens,” Ranek said, then turned and strode away.
Ragnar watched the old man stride up the ramp. As he did so, the great doors swung open soundlessly. He was greeted by a hunched figure garbed all in black robes, its face obscured by a metal mask. Ragnar watched him vanish into the gloom and then stood bemused for long minutes.
After a while he heard a humming grinding noise. The great flower on top of the building had started to move, to face away towards distant Asaheim. As he watched in wonder, its metal petals unfurled. In the centre lights pulsed eerily. Ragnar was not sure what this magic meant but he was sure it had something to do with the old sorcerer.
Left by himself in the huge square, something like panic seized Ragnar. He turned and hurried back to the docks.
The drumbeat sounded loud in Ragnar’s ears as the Spear of Russ pulled out of the dark waters of the Iron Masters’ harbour into the open sea.