by Farah Cook
28
IT IS DARK in the cellar, with faint gray light streaming in from the slit in the wall. The wind is cold, breezing in pockets of air from the veiled mountains settling in the dusk.
The wounds on my skin are healing fast and I’m worried about Frederick. His arm is still fragile, and not fully healed. Now his injured leg is at risk of infection and no magic can seal his wound. Magic is forbidden in the City of Vikings.
Mina’s beetle eyes are wide with worry. She’s sitting in a corner away from us making sniffling sounds that echo. Above the vault no sound reaches my ears. Not even when I tune in with my senses. None of my extraordinary gifts are active. I sense nothing except the beating of my own heart, in Frederick’s chest.
“When do you think, they’ll let us out of here?” I ask Frederick.
“Soon. If your dad is still alive, the news of our arrival would have reached his ears by now,” he says. “Everyone loves to gossip.”
“I don’t want to become a gossip. I’m here to find my dad so by now he should have come for me.” I calm my nerves. “We are not going to leave the city without a clue where to find the assassin weapons.”
“Don’t expect a straightforward handover,” says Frederick frowning. His stare deepens like the cold mountains – edgy and unpredictable. Mina has stopped crying and follows our conversation with her big black eyes like a tennis match. What? I move my lips soundless, but she keeps her eyes steady.
“In my imagination, I thought all this would be different,” I say. “I’ve been carrying around this vision of my dad. He sees me and recognizes me immediately. His own flesh and blood.”
“He will, Nora,” says Frederick and kisses my hand, which is smudged in black dirt. “Your dad as we speak is bailing you out—”
“Us,” I correct Frederick. “He will bail us out of here.”
“He has no relation to me – all I am to his kind is the enemy.”
“This city is not just run by Goths,” I say. “Or you may have been dead already. You have an alliance here, and they are different – I can tell – otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
Frederick’s face brightens. He wants to kiss me, but doesn’t. Instead he leans his forehead against mine, his breath calm and soothing and synched with mine.
“Steps coming closer,” says Mina. “Nora no go with Frederick Dahl. Dangerous.”
“It’s okay, Mina,” I hiss, my voice hoarse. “I chose to be with Frederick.” Mina’s face twists in confusion. I know what she might be thinking. Why would I be stupid enough to, first, fall in love with my opponent? Second, take a risk endangering my life? Is Frederick worth it?
“Yes,” I say and dazzle my eyes at Frederick.
“Yes, what?” he asks.
“Yes, you are worth every risk I’ve taken,” I say. “No matter what happens, you have to know I love you. I may not be good with words and emotions, but I have plenty I just don’t easily say them out loud. And I wanted you to know in case it’s too late…”
“Okay,” says Frederick, half surprised. “I’m glad you told me this.” He smiles broadly, and it suits him. That dangerous edge to his personality. I draw in a deep breath, wishing I could be some place bright with Frederick. Some place where our race doesn’t separate us. Where our rivalry would fade like the turning season.
The door to our cell opens. Three large women, big chested and somewhat older, enter. One drags Mina away by the hair, screaming and kicking. Her loud shrieks continue a long way down the hall and only fade when a door slams hard into its frame. Another woman moves her index finger and beckons for Frederick to come to her.
Like a gentleman, he stands up and before he gets to dust himself off, she grabs hold of his collar and yanks him out. He turns to look at me, and my heart sinks.
“Where are you taking him?” I ask. Of course, there’s no answer. I glare at the sturdy woman waiting to snatch me away. Much like Solvej she reminds me of someone who speaks only when required to. I make her task easy and follow her out of the cell without resistance. I walk behind her down the dark hall, with torches hanging against the walls.
Damp dark and vermin-filled, we leave the dungeon and fall into the dark blue open night – cold and crisp, the air reminds me of the East. Nothing but a faint memory and flickering images – my connection to that division is fading. I stop and observe a fountain in the main marble foyer, cobblestones brushed in silk. Trees, green and lush, innocent wind rustling through them. Across the foyer, even and tall standing brick buildings and circular wooden huts – large with oval dome-like roofs.
We are far away from the West’s glistening glamour and tall skyscrapers. Far from fairytale palace Slotsplads built by the famous architect Pilgrim Kern. His name would only be a mockery here. The solid walls that protect the city are man-made by strong, sturdy hands. I feel the labor and the love in the cement. Here, everything is different from that which resembles the West – wealth.
“Follow me, Nora Hunt,” says the woman darkly. “You will have your time…” her stern face doesn’t give away much. Mystery and secrets – there’s much to unfold and the one thing I cannot contain myself about is that I will meet my dad. Do I ask for him? Or do I wait? Every second feels like a stabbing pain.
I crane my neck forward and follow her up the swirling stairwell, into a cold corridor. The doors to the left swing in the wind making a creaking sound. I wonder where the two other women took Frederick and Mina. A door in front of me opens, hot steam rises from a tub. She hands me a set of scrubs, soap and a light cotton sheet. She moves her eyes and beckons me to a chair where gray cotton garments lie folded neatly.
She stares at me and waits. I walk into the room, dim light flickering from the candles. The walls are cold granite stone, and the floor old and uneven.
“There’s no way I am getting undressed in front of you,” I say. She crosses her arms over her large chest and furrows her eyebrows, squaring her jaw.
“You will undress like a lady, and clean yourself up.” She unfolds a piece of soft cotton and holds the plain white sheet in front of me. Quickly I throw off my dirty smelly clothes and slip into the hot bath. Once I sink in she grabs the soap and brush and starts scrubbing my back. I know she sees the tattoo and glides her fingers gently across it.
“Don’t touch it,” I shout. She breathes heavily and takes hold of my hair, yanking the comb through the hard knots while humming gladly like a bird. When the knots are out and my hair washed, she leaves me in the room, and locks the door from outside. I drive the frayed bristles of the brush over my skin and under my nails, washing away the black dirt. When I’m done with my bath I take the clothes from the chair and wrap myself in the tunic with a silver patterned rim.
Underneath the chair, I find a pair of soft flat leather shoes. I tie them around my ankles and pace the floor. There are no mirrors, only barred windows, and a fire about to die out in the fireplace. I sit down on the sheepskin rug, soft and comfortable, and toss a log or two on the fire.
The woman re-enters the room with a tray of food and water in a metal jug. No sooner has she left and like a savage I clean the tray and lick the bowl, making sure not a crumb is left behind. I lay down in front of the crackling fire and when I close my eyes against the fur the glow from the black burning wood warms my face.
Outside it rains, the sloshing sounds soon turn into thunder. I open my eyes, and the fire has turned into smoke and ash. I fall into a deep dream. My dad is inside a room, his back turned against me. His hair is long and wavy, and his beard gray. When I touch his shoulder, he doesn’t move at first. I shake him and he turns around. His eyes are big black sockets. Burned. Yggdrasil is tattooed on his face and he is screaming in agony.
“What have you done to me, Nora?” he says. “Look what you have done.”
I scream and wake with drops of sweat pouring down my neck. Someone at the door turns the handle and enters my room. I rub my eyes. This can’t be true.
It’s a tall ski
nny man I’ve only heard of in old folktales. Alfrothul Gunnlaug, a mighty Viking wizard, also known as Åse almvej – a “spåkone”, and means Viking witch in old Norse. He carries two genders – male on his front and female on his back.
He enters with his right foot first, to the front. Old and silver, coated in wrinkly skin. His beard hangs down his cheeks, as if it were the top of snowy mountains and his chin is clean shaven. He wears a woolen long-sleeved jacket down to his knees. Underneath the V-neck jacket he is dressed in a beige linen shirt and a linen scarf is tied around his neck. His waist holds a bulky leather belt and his pants are simple and much too wide, reaching down to his furred boots.
His hat is flat and old with holes in it, holding his wispy strands of hair tight to his head. With blue sparkling eyes, he looks at me, scratching his big pointy nose, which reminds me of an eagle beak.
When he turns, I catch a glimpse of Åse. Like a fairytale wicked queen, her face is hard and soft at the same time, elegant and evil altogether. Her eyes are tawny-brown, the iris nearly black. Her long blond braid hangs down onto her bare shoulder. She swings the heavy folds of layers on her long pale blue dress and walks smiling in my direction.
“Don’t come near me,” I say. “You can’t be real.”
“I am very real,” says Alfrothul, now turning to stare at me like a kind old man. I rub my eyes clean from any sleep hiding in them, afraid that I might still be dreaming. I’ve seen enough in the Forbidden Areas. Monsters, trolls, giants, fairies and other creatures, and now this. A legendary tale staring right at me with its two bizarre faces. One that holds tragedy and the other that holds comedy.
“It’s not a dream?” I ask.
“Would you like me to pinch you?” asks Alfrothul.
“Why are you here?”
“You disappoint me, Nora Hunt,” it says with a double-edged voice. Deep and dark, soft and gentle. I stare without blinking and water seeps out of my eyes, the burning sensation itching my retinas. I stagger and fall backwards. I lay on my back breathing in deep long breaths. My hand travels to my side and that’s when I realize that my sword is missing.
29
VIKING WIZARDS SERVE one purpose. Through their mighty powers they protect, guide and defend people. Alfrothul is an old Viking wizard I’ve heard tales of since I was a child. I never thought him to be more than a fantasy figure from Norse stories.
Åse, his female side, guides him on matters where his wisdom is limited, she sees the shadows and dark ways, tragedies and evil. Why Alfrothul has come to see me is a matter of what my judgment of him is. Is he here to make sure I am telling the truth? Possibly. His wisdom will lead him to what he’s here for.
“Missing something, are you?” he asks and takes off his hat.
“My sword,” I say. “It belonged to my ancestors.”
“What ancestors are those?” His spine curves like a cat’s as he leans against the wall watching me.
“Viking assassins,” I say. “The sword is mine to keep.”
“The sword belongs with the other Viking weapons,” says Alfrothul delicately. “For centuries, they’ve been kept safe, and will only serve the true ruling Empire. That battle of the nine worlds still has to be won.”
“Goth,” I say. “Will rule the worlds.”
“That’s not for me to judge.”
“There’s only one true Empire,” I say. “It will rise from the ashes and become what it once was – glorious.”
“Yes, for empires are built on blood-splattered soil,” says Alfrothul. “You will soon learn, young assassin, that nothing is what it seems. The role of a Viking assassin is much like a wizard’s. To protect those you care about. Tell me, do you care about—”
“Of course, I do,” I say feeling slightly offended. “Or else I wouldn’t be here.” He mutters and itches his clean-shaven chin and swiftly gets up. “Very well then.”
“That’s all?” I ask. “Are you not going to ask me—”
“Nora Hunt,” he says in raised voice suddenly. “Daughter of Robert and Karen Hunt. Bearer of the sacred map. I know who you are. For I was there the day you were born and I’ve seen your tattoo.”
“Tell me, Alfrothul, what gifts do I carry?” I ask directly.
“Many,” he says.
An intense, awkward silence hangs in the air between us. I try not to fidget. I’ve had enough of this shamanism. If he knows everything then why is he here?
“The first gift you received was beauty, and that you carry to protect yourself from the enemy. The Verans have done you no harm, and the person to lead their clan has fallen in love with you, so has the soon to become Emperor of the Goth Empire. You have used your gift well, Nora.”
Magnus did tell me he was in love with me at Slotsplads when he thought he’d lost me. I heard the words inside my head. Never was I in love with him, but I am drawn to him. He will become an Emperor, one who was not raised in a palace, but among his people. Just like me, he had to hide his entire life and he knows the price he’s had to pay – hiding his true identity.
“I don’t know if my beauty is a gift or a curse,” I say. “I don’t see it as a power. It could cause me trouble.”
“In your interest, it is a gift,” says the wizard wisely. “Your second gift is bravery, and with it the courage to be fearless. Your third gift is strength. You’ve killed many beasts on your way here, which would not have been possible otherwise.”
“What if I prove you wrong?” I say.
“Women of our times do not have what you do,” says Alfrothul “You have used your gifts to your advantage have you not?”
“That may be the case, Alfrothul,” I say slyly. “Or perhaps I was just lucky? Are there any more gifts that I am unaware of?” My forward attitude is unnerving him I can tell.
“That’s the only trouble. There’s one more gift. The one you’ve been waiting for all your life. The very thing that defines you. Do you know what gift it is that I speak of?”
“Freedom,” I say and remove my eyes from his.
“The question you must ask yourself, does freedom come at any cost?” Alfrothul paces the floor like a caged lion.
“I don’t know, I…”
“Freedom is the highest and most powerful gift of all. It could be your reward, or your curse, Nora, for carrying the world tree Yggdrasil. But be sure not to lead the nine worlds she holds in her branches into the shadows, or your freedom will be compromised, and in the worst case be the cause of your death.”
“Lord Nourusa,” I say. “He wants to rule the nine worlds into darkness.”
“It wasn’t always so,” Alfrothul says. “He was once a mighty wizard of golden powers. Strong, courageous, feared and loved, with angelic powers from the spirits of the gods. Nothing in this world is born evil – it becomes evil.”
“But he has formed an alliance with the Verans – his secret spies who use magic and manipulation…” I say. “The Sovereign Republic.”
“Of course, he has spies and worshippers so his powers grow every day,” says Alfrothul. “And he feeds on evil and lives in the shadows.”
“What choice do I have to make to be free from serving anyone?”
“The choice is simple,” says Alfrothul. Suddenly he turns, and Åse screams in my face. “Choices are never easy. The dark ways are waiting for you. Evil is upon us; the shadows have seen your face and hold your heart.” I step back, hand on my heart. Alfrothul turns his comedian face back on – a big broad smile appears on his face.
“What does she mean?” I ask, flustered.
“Do you give up your freedom entirely and follow your duty as Viking assassin or will you claim your power to be free and defy your own clan?” asks Alfrothul.
“Are you suggesting that I will chose my freedom over my duty to protect the Goth Empire?”
“Love,” he says and pauses. “They say it makes you blind. You cannot have the freedom to love a Veran.” Åse turns and narrows her eyes at me.
“Choic
es are never easy,” she whispers. “The Lumini Lords’ ways are heading your way Nora Hunt. Retrieve your heart before it’s too late.” Her face turns sour and green. There’s no grace or beauty. Just misery and contempt. I prefer the wizard’s kinder face as her tragedy is starting to upset me.
“What do you see in the world of shadows?”
“The nine worlds will turn into a dark place. We will have no future, in a world haunted by evil and despair, with one lord to rule them all. The two secret cities will break apart, for we have little power against the dark ways. For they wear masks of evil, covered in black cloaks. But it’s a choice you will have to make, Nora. You are the trusted bearer of Yggdrasil.”
I love Frederick, I do, and realize that my duty as the bearer of the world tree Yggdrasil and Viking assassin comes with a decision that costs me my freedom to live and freedom to love.
“What about my dad?” I ask. “Where is he? And why hasn’t he come for me?”
“He’s being kept unaware of your arrival for now,” says the wizard. “He’s made a new life here, away from the outside world. We, who live behind these walls, have made it clear that we do not want to be found.”
“It was you, wasn’t it?” I say. “Changing and shifting the path so we couldn’t get here.”
“An old wizard like me must do what I can to protect the secret city.”
“What are you protecting the city from?” I ask. “My kind?”
“Here, we have a pact among eleven barons from every race – among which we have allowed a Veran. The Earl rules the city, and has preserved peace among the races.”
“With a Veran, you say?”
“Their ways differ from others. But yes, a Veran sits in the Earl’s council and he serves only his own beliefs.”
“I couldn’t care less about the politics around here,” I say. “All I want—”