He heard trickles of water and glanced back at the icefall, now a gloomy curtain against the dull afternoon.
Above him, the torch illumined the dank ceiling, which cut sharply down towards a black maw of shadow, no taller than a man. He crept inside, ducking away from the flame-heat. A foul smell seeped into his mouth and nostrils, foetid as a drunkard’s breath.
The tunnel was short – hardly ten faltering steps before the torchlight expanded into a much larger cavern that loomed away into shadow. He stopped, astonished. The space could hold a feast-hall. His flame sent shadows dancing among strange shapes in the rock – cascades smooth as honey bubbling up from the floor, or dripping long and stringy as waxen candles from the ceiling.
Either side were smaller caves and hollows, framed by pillars that gaped like Fenrir’s fangs. Erlan shuffled forward and the shadows shuffled with him like living things, eyeing him silently as he went deeper.
He walked on, eyes darting at the eerie beauty around him. Ahead, light glimmered on something smooth. He saw the cavern shrank towards a pool. In its surface, rocky reflections shone sharp as knives. Seeing no way around, he put a cautious foot in the water and found it was only a few inches deep.
He felt soft grit underfoot. Treading warily, he had only gone a couple of steps when his weak ankle folded. Desperate, he threw out his sword to catch his balance. Wrathling’s point jammed into the sediment. He slewed wildly, yelped, spilling sparks onto his face. Pain seared up his leg. But somehow he stayed on his feet. He grimaced at the precious flame. Still alight.
Sviggar may regret sending a man who can’t even fucking walk.
Taking greater care, he shuffled to the other side, and looked up at the stark wall of rock. There was no way forward.
He was about to curse the bird for leading them to a dead end, curse himself for the folly of following a bird, when he noticed a shadow darker than the rest. He moved towards it. The torchlight slipped ahead, seeping into an enormous crack. Drawing closer, he saw it fell away into a darkness so dense it seemed it would smother his flame. And then, just below him, he saw something that made his skin prickle.
Steps.
Steps cut into the rock. Steps that went down and down into the abysmal shadow.
So their little friend had led them to something. Or someone. But just then, it was hard to feel grateful.
His hobbling gait echoed downwards, every other step a stab to his ankle. The torch burned dimmer now, gnawing its way towards his hand. He could see the hot resin at the foot of the flame only inches from his fist. There was no time to waste.
The path became ever stranger as he went down and down. Hundreds of steps, maybe thousands, wending a dismal path through many chambers, some small and cramped, others vast and fathomless; along passages smooth and dry; over rubble slick with slime. But always, he told himself, on a path that someone had made.
He came to another staircase. Sensing he was running out of time, he hurried down it, in spite of his limp, jumping the last two steps. But as he landed, the torch jolted, spilling scorching resin onto his hand.
He jerked in pain and before he could stop himself, he’d let go of the torch. He snatched wildly for it, but only knocked it further, and watched in horror as the stub skidded away into a patch of dank grit. The flame hissed. And he was plunged into utter darkness.
Blinking in panic, he tried to make out the rocks around him. Or anything. But open or shut, his eyes saw nothing. He was blind. Fear rose bilious in his throat, his heart thumping like a hammer. He wanted to get out – away – anywhere but this place – back to the light.
But breath by gasping breath, he fought down his horror until the fear that locked his limbs began to loosen.
He couldn’t see, he reasoned, but he still had his other senses.
And Wrathling.
He shuffled forward, gripping the hilt tighter than ever. Already it seemed he’d been buried under the earth for hours. Or was it days? Or years?
He groped onwards, feeling his way, with only his breathing, the ring of his footsteps and the touch of steel for company. For hours he waded through the sea of shadow, blind to everything about him.
He had only the next step.
And then, out of the darkness came a noise.
It sounded like. . . a scamper of feet.
A rat? Something bigger? He stopped to listen and now thought he heard a shallow panting. No rat sounds like that. Then more. Not panting exactly, but breathing, and from more than one direction. Behind him. To the side. Both sides.
Then he smelled it – acrid and stale. But unmistakable.
Human sweat.
He braced himself, listening for the slightest signal of an attack, fear snaking round his heart, his feet edging doggedly onward.
Suddenly, up ahead, he perceived something in the abyss. A light? It was. . . something. A sort of blue smudge. Hardly a smudge. A dim prick of light, like the ghost of some fallen star.
Fixing his gaze, he headed towards it. It seemed to grow. He closed his eyes, then opened them. Yes, there was something there.
Suddenly something glinted to his right. It was very close, and in the suffocating shadow, it shone brilliant as a blazing sun. He recognized it at once.
An eye.
Without warning, the darkness erupted into a babble of shrieks – shrill and wild – and beyond these, he heard an awful scraping. They were coming for him now. He readied Wrathling for the onslaught.
A rush of air as something shot past him. He slashed blindly, but his sword rang on stone. A low snicker. He spun, wild with fear, lifting his sword.
There was another rush of air, and another. Then hissed whispers, low and quick, were dancing round him like demon wasps. Still he crept on towards the blue light, sweeping Wrathling in front of him, its shadow just visible.
Suddenly there was a terrible scream and a body slammed into him. He stood firm and then, glimpsing another shadow, slashed down Wrathling. The blade tore flesh and something wet spattered his face. Then the blackness was filled with scampering feet, pitter-patter, coming for him.
Erlan put both hands to his sword and lay about him. He felt the steel bite, ripped it free to a shriek like a tormented gull. His leg kicked against something on the ground, and still he pushed for the light.
But the shadows were all about him now. Hands grappling at his legs, pulling at his cloak, snaking around his body. He tried to cut his way free from the tangle of limbs, but they were too many, too close, miring him in flesh. He wrested free his dagger, stabbing and slashing. Voices hissed and wailed when the edge found flesh. Foul breath blew in his face. Then stronger hands had his shoulders, then his arms, pinning them back. Clammy fingers crept around his throat and began to squeeze. He slewed drunkenly under the weight of pressing bodies, but then his ankle buckled and he collapsed under the writhing shadows.
The fingers were squeezing and squeezing till each breath burned like fire. He felt consciousness slipping away; waited, helpless, for the last sound he would ever hear in this world – the snapping of his neck.
But the sound didn’t come.
Instead he was drowning. Drowning in the shadows. Drowning in the darkness. And he knew he would never find his way back to the light.
Kai wriggled about under his fur. His backside was numb with the cold.
The pale firelight was growing more vivid as the cloak of night settled. He listened to the steady breathing of the horses and the crackling song of the fire. The faint smell of spruce dusted the air.
He was tired, yet restless. Bored, yet worried. He tried to distract himself by singing a song he knew, but his heart wasn’t in it. The words trailed away after only a few lines.
How long should I wait?
That was the question that was bothering him.
Erlan had said a night and a day, but what if there was still no sign of him by nightfall tomorrow? He couldn’t just leave. Couldn’t watch his friend disappear into that hole, never to co
me out, and do nothing. . .
I couldn’t do that.
He’d never felt so useless. He flicked the twig he’d been slowly shredding into the fire. What did it matter if he stayed alive to lead the king here if Erlan was already dead? He might have helped him – might have been the difference between life and death. Instead he was out here with the frost biting at his arse.
The gods’ll do for you, Erlan, and your damned stubbornness!
‘What do you reckon, you old bastard?’ It was the name he’d taken to calling the little grey bird. ‘You were happy enough to lead him into that hole, but you ain’t much for leading him out again.’
The jay hadn’t flown away yet and Kai had given up trying to fathom why. Still, it was the closest thing to company he had right now and he wasn’t about to chase it off. Instead, it had flitted around while he set up camp, before settling on a low-hanging branch a few feet from him, feathers puffed, neck tucked against the cold. Seemed a long while since it had made a noise.
He tore a morsel of bread off his loaf and was about to toss it to the bird when he stopped. A note, forlorn and unwavering, rose into the winter sky. The sound was unmistakable. A wolf’s howl.
Kai cocked his ear and waited. Sure enough, a few moments later, there it was again. He felt the blood turn cold under his skin. It was one thing to hear a wolf-cry when you were tucked up in bed under a roof of turf and timber. Another to be out in this wilderness. Alone. The wolf howled again. He listened carefully and found he could breathe easier when he judged it must be far away. Anyway, the spruce trees would conceal the fire, and the scent of the horses surely couldn’t travel that far. No, there was nothing to fear.
Still, best to keep an ear open.
He threw the bread over to the bird and watched it swoop, pluck the crumb from the snow, and return to its perch.
‘Aye – you’re welcome, you old bastard.’
Despite his worries, he smiled. And soon the weariness of their journey was smothering his thoughts like a wet cloak. So he lay back and yawned, dragging his sheepskin up to his chin.
He gazed into the fire till the flames started to blur. But just as his lids were closing, he caught a dart of movement.
He glanced over. The bird was agitated, fluttering from branch to branch. All at once it began squawking madly.
Kai was about to curse the old bastard for disturbing his sleep, but just then he saw, perched on a higher branch across the clearing, a pair of eyes gleaming like beads of jet. They were set in the head of a large bird, silhouetted against the darkness.
A raven.
He watched it drop its head, its hackle feathers rising like claws. Its beak rolled side to side, all the while those black-bead eyes following the jay from tree to tree.
Kai caught another movement in the tail of his eye. He turned and there was a second raven, big as the first, stretching its wings. Like the first, its hard eyes followed the jay, its beak snapping menacingly.
Kai was about to sit up when, as if at a signal, the ravens flew at the jay. But the smaller bird had seen the danger and launched itself upwards. The ravens went after it, black wings beating the air.
The jay dodged and darted, trying to shake the ravens through the tangle of branches, but they were always there, scattering powder everywhere. With growing rage, Kai watched the dark wings turning and diving above him.
And then, high overhead, a shadow smashed into the little grey smudge and the jay fell. It was dropping straight onto the fire, only suddenly its wings caught and it pulled out onto a branch. But one of the ravens was already landing with it, dashing snow to the ground. The raven’s head jabbed, again and again. Then the other raven had joined the first, pecking and stabbing at the jay without mercy.
Moments later, something fell. Hardly more than another lump of snow, thudding to join the rest that had fallen to the ground.
Kai went to the hole in the powder and reached inside. His hand came away with a small soft body. The bird looked pathetic in his palm, its drab plumage now gaudy with spots of blood.
His hand closed around it, feeling the last of its body heat seep into his fingers, and he looked up.
Four dark eyes, brimming malice, glared down from their perch. They only watched him a moment, then their wings flapped and they were gone into the night.
His eyes dropped to his hand.
It was only a dead bird lying there. Hardly a tragedy. But for no reason he could have explained, he felt a cold rage fill his heart.
That was when the wolf howled again.
Closer now. Much closer.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The stranger opened his eyes.
His cheek was pressed against something cold and hard. His neck throbbed. The same coldness touched the back of his hands. He turned them and felt rock. Pushed and his face was free.
He was lying on the floor of a cavern.
There was light, though but a little. The first thing he saw was a brazier of black iron. In its grate danced a blue flame, its light rippling over the walls with an icy glow. But the fire seemed to give out little heat.
A putrid damp filled his nostrils.
He looked about. The cavern was not big. It extended perhaps a dozen paces in each direction, curving into darkness at one end, while at the other there was a shadowy doorway cut out of the rock. He sat up and saw another shape – a stack of slated stones. At its top, the stack spread into one wide piece that formed a kind of tabletop, except that it stood as high as a man’s head.
What is this place?
Something moved in the tail of his eye, something in the shadows beyond the doorway.
One of the creatures?
He rose unsteadily to his feet, and took a first cautious step towards the doorway.
‘Don’t concern yourself about him,’ a voice sounded behind him. He turned in an instant, but could see no one. ‘He’s there to see we are not disturbed.’ The voice came in strange deep pulses through the stagnant air, filling the chamber like the echo of a far-off horn, though each word had a sibilant edge.
The gloom stirred, and the shadows fell away to reveal a figure that caught the breath in his throat.
His blood turned to ice. Instinctively, he shrank from the figure advancing towards him step by measured step. But what he saw would be carved for ever into his nightmares like some runic curse.
The figure had the shape and aspect of a man, yet his head towered ten foot from the ground, crowned with pale hair that shone blue in the flamelight. But the figure didn’t look old as a man looks old. Ancient. . . Beyond old – like the sky is old, or the ocean. His features were of perfect symmetry: a long straight nose, a smooth brow, a sharp hairless jaw with eyes that burned like coals. Yet it was the mouth that gripped him. The lips were white as snow – almost beautiful, if not for the sneer they wore, of such malevolent scorn that his heart trembled.
The huge figure drawing closer, Erlan saw his skin was all cracked, and so pale it looked chill to the touch. His hands were massive yet elegant, with knuckles the size of shield studs. He wore a long dark cloak, obscuring the immensity of his limbs, yet he moved with a kind of grace that belied his colossal appearance.
Erlan backed away.
‘You needn’t run,’ the giant began. ‘Where would you run to in any case? Back to your world?’ He uttered a deep throbbing laugh. ‘You could search for a hundred years and you would never find your way out.’
Erlan checked his steps, but said nothing.
‘That world is lost to you.’ The huge head turned to the cold fire in the grate, his long cloak dragging heavily across the cavern floor. ‘This is your world now. The world of your end. . . Or a new beginning.’
The eyes turned and bore into Erlan’s like hot iron.
‘What is this place?’ whispered Erlan, his voice at last overcoming his fear.
‘This is Niflagard. The realm of the Nefelung. I am their king.’
‘I’ve never. . . heard those nam
es.’
‘What of that? Men are ignorant, and the Nefelung have been known by other names. Some have called them the earth-dwellers, some the mørklunger, others only darklings.’ The giant smiled.
‘What are these. . . Nefelung?’
‘It is well that you should know. Many, as it goes, are just like you. They eat, they drink, they rut, they spawn, just as does the race of men. Others. . .’ He looked away. ‘Well, I shall come to that.’
‘How have men come to live in this. . . this deathly darkness?’
‘All men may learn to live in darkness if they have a good enough reason. And when they know no better. . .’ His eyes narrowed cruelly. ‘Then, this is life.’
‘No reason would be enough to dwell in this hole.’
‘You think not? How about the end of the world? Faced with certain destruction, men will seize any scrap of a chance to keep their pathetic lives from extinction. Especially when guided by another.’
‘You?’
Slowly, he stroked his chin with a long white finger. ‘Yes. A man will do many things if he believes he is guided by his god. But how pitifully weak is the mind of man, how pitifully easy to seed his thoughts with ideas that are not his own. Fear, a lie, a way out – with these I have built my kingdom.’
‘A way out of what?’
‘You call it the Ragnarok. You watch and watch for it. But when the final destruction comes it will not be as you imagine, nor as those first ones I drew here thought of it. Yet once a few were convinced, they persuaded many others to follow. After all, men are like cattle – they prefer others to do their thinking for them.’
Erlan thought of Vithar’s tale in the assembly. Of those trying to escape the death of the sun.
But the sun had not died.
‘If you are no god, are you of the jötnar?’ Every child knew of the giants who dwelt in a land far, far to the north – every one of them bane to the gods of Asgard.
‘Ha! Your people are fond of growing tales out of the shadow of the truth. Your jötnar are not as you believe. But those tales took seed in the old times – when the great ones still dwelt among you. Now they are scarce in number and seldom known.’
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