After the Fall (Raud Grima Book 2)

by Sophia Martin

  “Hey,” I whispered, soft as I could. “Hey, it’s alright. They’ve gone, sure enough.”

  The shuffling stopped, and I could hear her struggling to breathe. A ragged sound.

  I crouched down by her side, put the other knife away and shown the glim on her, just to be sure it was as bad as I thought. I’ll not say how they hurt her. They’d done enough so’s she was dying, and I’ll not toss away what little dignity I can give her by describing it now. Her eyes were swollen but she had them open a crack, and I met her gaze.

  “I can try to carry you home,” I said.

  She shook her head just a bit, ruined mouth working, and blood oozing from it.

  “Don’t try to talk,” I said, and with care I took her hand. “I’ve got something’ll do you right good.” I set the glim down on the ground near her head and got the little brown bottle out with my other hand, but then I ended up having to let go of hers anyway so’s I could open the stupid thing. I held the bottle to her lips and poured the lot of it into her mouth. Some leaked out the side but I rested a hand under her chin to keep it closed for her ’til she’d managed to swallow it all. It was a wonder she could.

  “There now,” I said. “It’ll not be long now.”

  I took up her hand again in mine, and soon enough her body went loose. I watched over her, but it didn’t take more’n a few minutes for all the warmth she had left to slip away. That was the only way I knew she’d died.

  ~~~

  I didn’t go home on account of not having laudanum to give Ótti and not wanting to have it out with her right then. I was fair shaken with the terror that the slashers almost found me and of course with grief for the woman. I’d not learned her name.

  Instead I made my way out of the broken tunnels and onto the street, and by the time I did it was past dawn. I found a door unlocked to one of the buildings still standing nearby—I weren’t sure where I was, exactly, on account of never leaving that way before and ’cause I weren’t paying much attention anyway. Maybe the Hársektor, judging from the walls that had trees behind them, probably leading to what was left of the fine estates belonging to the rich of Helésey—not courtiers or royals, mind, they all lived in the palace, but the Heléseyans what owned banks and other fine establishments. With the devastation of the city it was hard to tell now which parts’d once been the nice ones.

  Atli ruled the northern Hársektor, and I’d no interest in trespassing on his territory, but I was fair certain this weren’t the northern part. Bjorn Hofdi ruled the south of the sector, and he got along most days with Styrlakker, so I might escape his notice so long’s I didn’t stir up trouble.

  I climbed the staircase inside the building. This had probably once been where some of the rich folk who weren’t quite in the same league as the ones with the estates once lived. The stairs were marble with a brass bannister, intact despite the bombings what had left large gashes in the wall beside them, so you could look out and see the destruction beyond. There weren’t much left of the buildings next door, just piles of broken rocks and cement.

  A great glass chandelier had once hung from the ceiling at the top of the winding stairs, but its glass pieces lay under a layer of dust all down the steps now. I took care not to touch any as I went up—no good reason really. I don’t expect no one’d noticed if I’d kicked a piece clear across to the wall opposite, but I couldn’t bear any extra noise in any case.

  The top of the staircase led to nothing—the ceiling was clear gone, and I stopped on the highest step and sat, looking out at the view of the city, once beautiful and cold, now ruined and evil. I did nowt for a time, then pulled out the books Ivarr’d gave me from the sack I retrieved after I left the woman’s body.

  I didn’t want to look at the beautiful pictures in the Elga. As I turned over Myths of Njord in my hands, the verses from the Hálfdanar Saga come back to me. Thinking of the boat on the sea bearing off the prince, I felt tears sting my eyes. But I didn’t want to cry any more’n I wanted to look at the Elga’s pictures. After the way that woman died, beauty and sorrow were both luxuries I’d not allow myself to enjoy. It was the red book what caught my attention. I set aside the others and gripped Raud Gríma: Hero of Luka, staring at the title like I’d forgot how to read it. First, rage at Raud Gríma took hold of me, for if she’d stayed, maybe there would be no slashers to brutalize us and leave us for dead. Then, my eyes fixed on the word, Luka. Luka, god of chaos. Father of lies and of Hel, the Goddess who ruled the underworld. Luka, father of wolves, father of the Serpent who would devour the world. The flame-haired God.

  I opened the book and flipped through. I’d read others what told legends of Raud Gríma, and some what claimed to tell a true history, and of course there were all the new tales about the woman who’d disguised herself as Raud Gríma and brought on the city’s fall. Her real name was Myadar Sölbói, and true enough, they said she’d sworn herself to Luka out of thirst for vengeance.

  That sounded about right to me.

  Look what she wrought, a little voice in my head muttered. It’s her doing what caused the factions to rule, the slashers to run wild, the city to fall.

  But perhaps that was what she intended, after all. The tales never had much to say about the object of her vengeance, except maybe the jarl, her husband, and there’s them what claim he’s living still, that he escaped when the royals and most of the courtiers did. And if that’s so, he can’t have been the object, can he? No. I think she wanted to destroy the city, and that she did. Although why she hated it so, I’m not one to say. I suppose she helped us underlings for a time, bringing food and such, but she brung weapons too, and many’s the slasher who’s still got one of the guns or knives she delivered.

  It’s no light choice, to swear yourself to Luka, the little voice said. Luka’s no God of light, no Healer like Frigga. But Alfódr’s God of war and death, himself, and so there’s no sense thinking Alfódr’s good and Luka evil. In more’n one old story of Luka, he’s the one what finds what’s lost, or solves the Gods’ problems.

  “If I swear myself to you,” I said to the red book, “I want no harm to come to innocents, am I understood?”

  There was no answer, of course. I knew Luka would make no such guarantee. You can’t negotiate with Gods, and I could hear my Amma calling me a fool like she was standing at my shoulder.

  But the woman’s blood had stained my coat brown, and I couldn’t stop thinking of the sounds I’d heard, and her poor face, and how she died so quick, like the laudanum’s relief just freed her up to let go. She weren’t the first to die by the slashers’ hands, and she’d not be the last, I reckoned. And there was the toadies, likewise, and all the fighting ’tween the factions. Did I hope to stop them all? Perhaps not. But I wanted vengeance on the slashers what killed that woman, and would’ve killed me if they’d found me. I wanted vengeance on them all. The want got worse and worse as I sat, holding the red book, at the top of that staircase. The wind picked up and started whipping through my hair, and I looked out over the city like it was the last time I ever would.

  “Luka, give me the strength to punish them. Guide me to the tools I’ll need, and see me through to the end of my vengeance. I offer myself to you in exchange.”

  I’d done it. I’d made an appeal to the God of Deceivers, the Murderer-God. Known as a betrayer, and punished for centuries in chains with poison dripping on his head. Would I be punished, too? I stood, still staring out over the city. I didn’t care. I’d not sit by any longer, waiting for slashers to come for me, or Ótti, or Rokja—Name of Gods, not her. I’d kill them all first.

  ~~~

  I sat on the top stair for a long time, and even slept a bit. The light changed from the kind in a cold morning to the kind in an only somewhat less cold afternoon, and it come to me sudden-like what I had to do.

  I don’t know why I’d never thought of it before, but I suppose I’d never considered myself a candidate to replace Raud Gríma after she left. They say she was stronger�
�n any normal woman, and I’m not weak, but I’m not so strong as all that. But I know the city and I know a thing or two about surviving it, and maybe with Luka’s blessing I’d have a bit of luck on my side. Because it’d not be only about surviving anymore. I’d made up my mind to kill every slasher I could, and as many toadies as Luka sent my way as well. But to do any of that, I’d have to be equipped better’n a whore with a liking for books.

  Sitting up there, looking out at the view, it didn’t take long ’fore I knew where to find what I needed. Sure enough, it was staring at me, standing like a great thistle outta the ruins, for the bombers had somehow never managed to hit it, though I’m sure plenty of them tried. Older powers than Gods must protect Grumflein Prison, for it’s lasted longer’n any temple in Helésey, despite everything that’s happened here.

  I’d still no mind to return to Mosstown, and what with the day getting on, I decided there was no time better’n now for making my way to Grumflein. The sack of books was a burden I didn’t want, though, as I’d have plenty of climbing and such to do especially once I got there, so I found a nook to tuck the sack away in. Knowing I’d hidden the books gave me a nice feeling, and it was the first nice feeling I’d had since the night before sitting with Ivarr, so I thought maybe I’d find a better spot eventually and start hiding all my stuff there. It’s not that anyone’d bother with my books. Of my brothers and sisters, only Kisla and Vig learned to read, and neither as well as me anyhow. Since neither one lived with us no more, I’d no worry of either stealing my books. Ótti didn’t read and didn’t even much care for it if I tried to read to her, and though Amma and Mum read, neither’d take owt from me. Well, maybe Mum would if she thought she could sell it, but with most of the nobles gone from the city, no one would pay anything for something so useless as books.

  But it was no matter that I’d no need to hide my books, I realized. Doing so’d felt right. I took it to be a sign from Luka and decided not to question it. I’d get my things soon as I found a better spot, and move them to it.

  Enough gaping at your hoard, Ginna-girl, I thought. It’s time to move.

  So I left my books in the rubble at the top of the broken stairs and made my way down to the streets, taking the quiet routes up to the Fangsektor in the northwest. “Fang” is the old word for prison and the whole sector refers to Grumflein, but Grumflein’s just on the southern border of it, almost just across a boulevard that separates the Fangsektor from the districts of Vitraust and Midborghá. I always found it odd that the Fangsektor took the prison for a name considering that the prison itself’s on such a crossroads. Like the Fangsektor’s claiming more’n its share, and who would want to claim Grumflein if they’d had a say? Course ’fore the rise of Tyr the coppers’d had their headquarters in the Fangsektor. I suppose they’d like Grumflein just fine.

  Like I said before, plenty of the rebels what got a hold of aeroplanes tried to bomb Grumflein, and all of them missed, which made the going a lot harder’n anywhere else in the city as far as I knew. It was all rubble from most of the north half of Midborghá on. I’ve not explored the eastern neighborhoods of Vistraust—nor any other part, not wanting to stray too close to the new temple to Freyja—but I suspect it’s just as bad, and that most of the Fangsektor’s ruined as well. I had to take care over every step I covered, for broken concrete and metal frames and such have a way of looking solid when they’re not. You’ll die as quick from a bar of steel through the gut in a bad fall as you will from slashers getting a hold of you—faster, no doubt—so it’s stupid not to take time when you’re climbing over ruins. In some parts of the city folks’ve cleared out paths through the worse wreckage, but not in Midborghá. Though that didn’t seem to discourage plenty of people from moving around it, and more’n once I had to huddle in some cranny or other while I waited for people to go past.

  So by the time I reached the boulevard separating the Fangsektor from Midborghá and Vistraust, which was the first clear area I’d come across and probably only got that way after someone when to a fair bit of work, it was night again, of course. And my stomach was giving me the more and more urgent message that I’d not eaten nothing since early the day before. Why I hadn’t had a bite when I stopped back home with the stuff Gram gave me I don’t know—except I try not to eat much so’s Rokja’ll always have enough. But this time that had been the wrong choice, wouldn’t you know. Where was I going to find something to eat around here? The south half of Midborghá was Atli’s territory, most of it, and it’d take me more’n an hour, probably two, to get back down there anyhow. I could beg at the temple of Freyja, but I was known enough as a whore to make them want to recruit me, and I didn’t like the looks of them. Besides, hunting around for food without a clear goal would just run me under the noses of slashers sooner or later. Better to go hungry and get the task at hand done. I’d eat when I got back to Mosstown.

  The trouble with not eating for too long is you’re likely to lose your wits or your balance, so I had to take even more care as I crossed the last of the rubble to get to the base of the prison tower. I knew I’d be more vulnerable than usual to being surprised on account of I was starting to feel muddled. It was a fool thing to do, I could hear Amma’s voice in my head. I agreed with her, but here I was.

  The doors at the base of the prison were nowt but shards of wood, on account of how many people’d taken some pleasure in destroying them after the city fell. I reckoned the inside of the prison’d be as bad, and when I made my way into it, sure enough, owt what could be broken was. Lights on the walls, doors, racks of what used to be shelves or some such. I started to get that bad feeling you do when you realize you might have made a mistake. If they’d been through the whole tower and broken everything they could, no doubt they’d took everything they could, too. And what were the chances they’d left Raud Gríma’s stuff behind? And any guns what might have been lying around? All this way, and what were the chances I’d find owt at all?

  It was dark out, by the Eye, and I’d best stay put ’til dawn less I wanted a bad run in. I needed sleep, too, although around about then I was pretty grateful I’d napped at the top of them stairs in the Hársektor. Small favors. I thought it over and decided that even if it turned out a disappointment, it’d not be a waste to pick through whatever folks had left behind in the tower. I’d start up top and work my way down. At first light I’d go home, I promised myself.

  Course that’s not what happened, on account of as soon as I really got going with the searching I forgot all about how hungry I was and what time it was. People’d left plenty of stuff behind, I reckon ’cause most of it weren’t worth nothing to them. There weren’t much light, but I had my glim. What caught my eye first were the poems written on the walls of the individual cells. The top cells in Grumflein are reserved for the nobles and such, so they were educated and could write their thoughts. One verse was scrawled on a wall in what I supposed must be blood, for what else would have that reddish brown colour? It read:

  Day after day

  Night after night

  I think of you, love

  And hope you thrive

  I recalled that High Vigja Galmr said Tyr condemned anyone what loved someone of their own sex. I wondered how many prisoners in these upper cells had committed that crime and no other. They’d have sent me here if they could, for loving Ótti. Course, Galmr had other plans for sewer rats than the highest floors of Grumflein Prison, don’t you know. Still, I touched the poem with the tips of my fingers, and my heart was swollen a bit for the one what wrote it. I wondered if he or she had survived.

  There was a scarf on the cot by the poem, brown with light gray stripes at angles to one another. After a closer look I seen the stripes made a shape like two triangles touching at their lower points, the rune Bjarka and the symbol for Frigga. I wondered how the prisoner’d managed to keep the scarf, for no doubt the Officers of Tyr’d not allow it if they’d known. Maybe he—or she—had always kept it folded so’s to cover the design.
In any case, now it was one of the many odds and ends the scavengers’d left, and I wrapped it round my neck ’fore I moved on to the next cell.

  I went on like that for hours. Another poem I found, this one inked in a more reassuring black, read:

  Oh Gods, my life lay long before my eyes

  With promise, delight, joys so surely mine

  But now I count the days and weep the nights

  And find my greatest enemy is time.

  It struck me odd that so many of the prisoners had chosen to record their thoughts in poetry, but then, they must have spoken to each other of their compositions. Maybe it became something they traded with each other. I hoped so. So many of the poems were ripping lonely. It helped to think that their writers had perhaps at least had each other.

  I collected little things as I went. An empty bottle of perfume here—it still held the faintest whiff of lovely flowers—a block of unspoiled paper there—I clutched it like a real treasure, for I’d never written my thoughts down before, but always thought on it, wondering what it’d be like to try. So when I come to the broken door of a storeroom, I almost didn’t like to go in and see what was left, for I doubted I’d have any way of carrying much more. Add that to the list of reasons why I’d made a mess of this outing; I’d have done better to go home, eat, sleep, and collect a bag with real straps to carry what I found.

  I hesitated by the smashed door of the storeroom, but of course it would have been nonsense to leave it unexplored, so I went in, stepping careful-like over shattered wooden boxes someone’d had great pleasure in stomping on sometime since, flashing my glim here and there, trying to see the whole with just my pitiful beam. It come clear to me quick as you please that this weren’t no ordinary storeroom, but a place the Officers must have kept what they considered evidence in cases against the prisoners. It was picked over worse’n the cells, but I found plenty of papers: letters with lines circled or underlined by some investigator’s hand, no doubt. Documents with fancy titles like “Affidavit,” “Court Writ,” and “Notarial Act.” I logged them words under those I didn’t know and must find a book about. The paragraphs beneath them made little sense to me anyhow, and I left them where the scavengers before me had.