‘The great ones? Who are they?’
‘They were the offspring of my kind and the most desirable of the daughters of men.’ He stroked his chin in that disturbing way, as though remembering. ‘When we took them.’
‘I don’t understand. If you are no giant, what are you?’
‘I am one of the Watchers.’ He sighed, a sound like the heaving of the ocean. ‘We are older even than the world of men.’ A troubled look passed over him. ‘Once we dwelt in a realm. . . Well – far from here. We were the mightiest. The brightest. Yet the lord there was nothing but a small-minded tyrant. A glutton for his own glory, yet denying the glory of those who secured his power. There was a war. But he couldn’t be torn from his throne. So the first of our kind came here, to the world of men.’
‘You were defeated.’
‘Do the defeated wield power as we do?’ he boomed, eyes flaring with anger. But he mastered himself quickly. ‘There were others who left, not from war, but from desire. I was such a one.’
‘Desire? For what?’
Before he answered, a strange luminescence rippled over him, from the crown of his head down over his face and body. Within it, Erlan glimpsed a beauty so startling he never could have dreamed it: golden hair, eyes bright as suns, silken skin and blinding white robes. But it was gone so fast he thought he must have imagined it.
‘We only wanted the daughters of the men of this world. We left to take them for ourselves. And afterwards, that other realm was sealed to us. The tyrant would rather we thirst and beg like dogs but never receive – our only crime to desire something
he meant to be desirable.’ His voice dripped bitterness. ‘He punished us. Once we climbed on the air like eagles. Now we crawl in the earth like worms. And he gave us a sign to remember him by.’
He made the faintest of gestures behind. Erlan saw the Watcher’s cloak sweep across the floor with a hiss, but could make nothing of it.
‘Who is this tyrant then?’
‘He is nothing in this world now. I will speak no more of him.’
Erlan didn’t press him. ‘Well, if you’re king of the Nefelung, do you have a name?’
‘I have many. In your tongue, I am Asasterk. In other lands, Azazel. Some have called me the Destroyer. In these caverns and the northern forests, I am known as the Witch King.’
‘The Witch King,’ Erlan repeated. The gods knew he had reasons enough for hating witchery. Now he had another. ‘The Nefelung are your thralls then.’
The Witch King snorted. ‘Not all of them. Some are my sirelings. I told you, our offspring were the mighty ones of old. Here, they are overlords, ruling over my thralls. After the great darkness above, the people found their way into these caves, lured by my call. They had their leaders, naturally, and with them wives and children and every last ounce of gold they could carry. But after I first appeared to them, they soon worshipped me as a god. For down here, they were lost.’ He laughed his loathsome throbbing laugh. ‘So very lost!’
Erlan listened on, enthralled by his strange words, and heard how he had taken for himself all their choicest women and many more besides. They bore him sons who grew into mighty men, with sharp minds and hard limbs. To them, he gave his dark knowledge – of sorcery, of bewitching men’s minds, of power over nature to change their form. And these overlords had a choice. They could stay in the darkness, masters over the Nefelung thralls; or they could go up, to live among the race of men. There, to foster every kind of wickedness – chaos and deceit; murder and treachery; bloodshed and greed.
‘This they do well,’ the Witch King said. ‘Through them, I’ve been leading the men of the north to blood and destruction since long ago. Soon it will be visited on all the world.’ His lips curled in a pale smile.
Blood and destruction, thought Erlan, scathingly. That is the world of men. ‘Are there people like this now? These overlords – even in Sviggar’s realm?’
‘Certainly.’
Erlan tried to imagine who at Sviggar’s court might be more than what they seemed, and found he thought of a good many people. Too many. ‘And their seed too?’
A look of irritation passed over the Witch King’s cracked face. ‘Their seed. . . No. They have sired many offspring, but they are. . . tainted. They do not grow as do the children of men.’ The Witch King seemed reluctant as he described how the overlords’ progeny were deformed of limb and face, and so wantonly cruel that they were difficult to control. These were named the Vandrung. ‘They feed on only one thing. Human flesh.’ Erlan listened in disgust as the Witch King told how the Nefelung thralls were bred to keep these Vandrung sated.
‘They grow in number, but it is no matter. When they are too many I send them up to find what flesh they will elsewhere. Sometimes they return, but often they turn on each other or disperse. I let them go. . . Unless they can be of use.’
‘The Nefelung are but slaves and fodder then.’
‘They are worth nothing more. We put them to working in the mines or forging weapons or fashioning the gold they love so much. And many of their newborn are taken, of course. But here they are free from the bonds that choke your world. Free to glut themselves as they wish – with fighting or the pleasures of the flesh. I do not stop them. A man is happiest when he is most like a beast. He needs only the lash from time to time to remind him to fear.’
‘But I still don’t understand. Why stay so long hidden from the world above – and then suddenly make yourselves known? The killings – why now?’
‘Why now?’ the Witch King snarled. ‘Why not? Real fear comes from meaninglessness. If there is no reason, then you are afraid. If I wanted Sviggar’s Seat – or the seat of any king – I would take it. But it pleases me to sow seeds of warfare and jealousy and murder and betrayal in the hearts of men and women. Best of all are the blood sacrifices to your gods.’ His voice rang off the walls of the chamber. ‘Your gods don’t listen. . . We are the gods and we do just as we will! When you slit the throats of your women and children to gain some blessing, we laugh. Their blood changes nothing.’
Erlan had no response. The Witch King’s words were too much. In this netherworld, he was sure of nothing any more. He groped for something. Something solid. Something real. . . Lilla.
‘Sviggar’s daughter? What do you want with her?’
The Witch King gave an indifferent shrug. ‘She’ll be mine for a time. When I saw the Vandrung had her, I wanted her. The time has come to sire a new brood of sons and daughters. They will be the masters in the new age of destruction that is coming. For a time, she will birth my seed and when I am done with her, I shall give her to the Nefelung. They will use her as they wish.’
A wolfish smile spread across the Witch King’s face, goading Erlan. But he shut his revulsion away.
‘You’ve struggled all this way. Would you like to see her?’
Erlan nodded.
The Witch King called out over Erlan’s head in a strange tongue. There was movement in the darkness, the pad of footsteps receding.
‘You come to save her,’ the Witch King sneered.
Erlan said nothing.
‘A pathetic hope. Perhaps you knew this. But we shall soon see whether you’re as foolish as the lord who sent you.’
‘Fool or not, Sviggar is a lord of war. Your Vandrung have brought his sword to this place.’
‘Lord of war? Baah! The Watchers gave men war! Taught them its ways. If this little lord wants to follow the crumbs I’ve thrown him, he will be swallowed by the darkness.’
‘If he falls in battle, you give him what he seeks. A glorious death. A seat at the All-Father’s bench.’
‘The All-Father’s bench!’ The Witch King boomed with laughter. ‘Hah! You still don’t understand, do you? There are no gods! No, his carcass will rot and his soul will remain in the shadows with us. And his heroes with him.’
The sound of footsteps approached.
Three figures appeared at the chamber entrance. Erlan hardly glanced at the two
guards, with their lesioned skin, lank white hair and dead-looking eyes, each gripping an arm of the girl between them.
She was barely recognizable: her dark blonde hair tangled into a great knot; her eyes, pools of shadow fixed on the cold floor; her cheeks hollow and grey. Her mouth was curled into a weird half-grin and her dress torn to rags. With each limp, her naked and bloody toes, just visible under her tattered hem, buckled with pain.
At last, she looked up and saw Erlan. Shock, pain, despair all chased across her features, fusing into a hard look of defiance. Or perhaps it was anger. She kept her eyes on him.
‘You must not think too ill of me, child,’ began the Witch King. ‘My servants are brutes. If your journey was discomforting, soon, I promise, I will make you feel most. . . comfortable.’ Erlan saw again the strange luminescence ripple down his body.
Lilla said nothing. Her only sound, ragged breathing. The Witch King paced around her, his long cloak sliding across the floor with a sibilant hiss. But she wouldn’t look at him.
‘We shall see how that delectable maiden belly takes my seed.’ A repulsive leer smeared his pallid lips. ‘You are fortunate, my dear. Many women have learned there is no pleasure more exquisite than a Watcher feasting upon her body. To give up your flesh to a mere man – what an intolerable waste! Women of such beauty are worthy only of our desire. You will soon need my flesh more than the air you breathe.’
Lilla looked at the Witch King for the first time. ‘I don’t care what you do,’ she whispered. ‘You’ll always be as foul to me as the stinking air in this demon hole.’
The Watcher’s laugh throbbed around the chamber and he stretched out a long white finger. She tried to move her head out of his reach, but the guards held her tight. The tip of his finger traced her jaw. ‘Good!’ he hissed, red eyes flashing. ‘It is better you are unwilling. That is how it should be – one beauty consuming another.’ The sinister pulse of light passed over him again, and he took away his hand.
‘I shall not keep you waiting long, my dear.’ He gave a command and the thralls turned and began dragging Lilla to the doorway, but with the last of her strength, she screamed, writhing against their grip. And suddenly she was screaming Erlan’s name again and again until the cavern echoed.
Erlan turned to throw himself at the guards, but he’d hardly moved when fingers like iron seized his neck and threw him at the wall. His head cracked against rock, the wind thumped from his chest, and he slumped to the floor.
Lilla’s screams shrank into the darkness.
Erlan looked up through a fog of pain. The Watcher didn’t move, only glared with scornful eyes at Erlan’s crumpled body.
‘Get up.’
Painfully, Erlan pulled himself upright. ‘Why tell me all this?’ he gasped. ‘Why not just kill me?’
The pale lips curled. ‘If death were all I intended for you, I wouldn’t waste words.’ He smoothed his chin. ‘I offer you a choice. My call has drawn you here, inexorable as a tide.’ He made a mocking flourish in the air with his hand. ‘You are a hero of the realm.’
‘I’m no hero,’ muttered Erlan.
‘Oh, they don’t see it yet. But they will – your destiny draws you on. No man will be able to deny it.’ He fixed Erlan with his burning eyes. ‘Why do you think we are called the Watchers? I saw you far off. And I have voices and eyes among the spirits. I heard of you from your friend in the west who thinks he sees. How easy it was to persuade him to lead you here! Though now, alas, he’s gone to see his beloved dead face to face.’
‘Grimnar is dead?’
The Witch King answered with an enigmatic smile.
Erlan shook his head, struggling to make sense of the Witch King’s words. ‘What destiny do you speak of?’
‘Perhaps nothing. A shadow that might never be. It depends on you. You must choose. Naturally, you may choose death. But there is another path for you.’ The Witch King went to the huge slate table. Its surface lay just above Erlan’s eye level.
‘See how free you are? You are not bound. Your own sword lies here.’ He reached out and plucked something from the slate surface. ‘You may have it back in a moment if you choose well.’ Wrathling flashed blue in the firelight, its steel blade seeming small in the Witch King’s hand. Even so, he tried a couple of cuts at the foetid air. ‘A fine weapon. Though quite useless here.’ He tossed it back on the table with a clatter.
‘So you are free to choose. Die now for Sviggar. Or serve me as your lord.’
Was this what this strange king was bringing him to?
The Witch King snorted impatiently. ‘Come! You waste my time.’
‘I swore an oath to serve him. Swore on the sword of my fathers.’
‘Bah! You creatures are so pathetic, with your notions of honour. Or your hunger to win a great name. It makes you all so predictable. . . You think power comes from oaths of loyalty and wealth and laws and a strong arm? No. Real power comes from chaos. Real strength throws off the shackles of honour or the petty rules that pander to a man’s conscience. We are strong because we are bound by nothing. No law, no duty.’
The Witch King’s eyes glowed like embers.
‘Your heads are filled with stories of your gods and goddesses. Thor – a petulant fool! Odin – the so-called Father of All who wants all his best children slaughtered! The All-Wise who knows nothing!’
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘Honour makes you a slave, chained by an illusion. Freedom is to satisfy whatever your head or heart or body desires. Freedom is to have now. Freedom is to answer to no one and nothing. Not to honour, not to kings, not to gods, not even to the tyrant.’ His face seemed to cloud with a terrible darkness. ‘Freedom is to be a god among men. That is what I offer you.’
Erlan couldn’t tear his eyes away from the pale lips. With each word, a mist was creeping into his mind, smothering his reason. But as the stream of words continued, he began to hear sense in the Witch King’s meaning.
‘I know you. You cannot hide behind an oath, Chosen Son. Swear fealty to me, and I will make you lord over every other man. Free to answer to no one but yourself.’
The words flowed like a sweet melody he had always known and yet had never heard.
‘I know you. Join me and you can sate all that lies within you. A woman’s flesh? Poor fool, you’ve eaten one dish and now it’s gone, you insist on starving! Feast on a mountain of flesh and be free from the curse of love. You’ll soon forget the scraps that once satisfied you.’
Erlan shook his head, trying to loosen the cords tightening around his mind. But the Witch King spoke on.
‘I know you. Anger fills your heart. It festers like an unbound wound. Then let the whole world feel your wrath. I will slake your anger. And the world will pay for the wounds you bear.’ Erlan fumbled for an answer under the deluge of words. ‘There is anger within me.’ He nodded. ‘Anger from which I would be free.’
‘I know you,’ the Witch King said a fourth time. ‘You want to control your own destiny. I shall cut the weave of the Norns’ needles – you alone shall be master of your fate. The world will tremble and bend to your will – the world that laughs while you suffer will be made to bleed.’
‘Men will hate me,’ Erlan murmured as if from some reverie.
‘Let them hate,’ soothed the Witch King, ‘so long as they fear. Look only to me. I will give you everything. I will be your lord.’
‘Yes,’ whispered Erlan. ‘Yes.’
The Witch King’s voice hardened. ‘Now. . . kneel.’
Erlan hesitated. The Witch King laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.
‘Kneel,’ he repeated, pressing down. The stranger sank. ‘And bind yourself to me for ever.’
He inched lower and lower until his knee touched the floor, the exact moment a scream stabbed the dead air, sharp as a needle. It rose from far away in that strange world of shadows, flaring like a spark thrown from the furnace of his mind. Its light died in an instant, but it was enough. He had seen.
Seen the anger burning in his heart, seen the thirst for vengeance that prowled there, eager to devour something. Anything. . . Yet why should the whole world feel its bite? A lie had struck this wound. A hand of death had robbed him of love. Was love a curse? Was the world only counting the days until its descent into fire – when the Ragnarok would consume everything? Or was that all just another lie? He was certain of only one thing: he, Erlan, was the enemy of lies. And this king in the darkness, this Azazel – he was the lord of lies. He was his enemy.
Vengeance could drink of his blood.
He sank still lower until his fingers found the rock and he felt his feet grip. Behind the veil of his ragged hair, he inhaled deep.
Then he leaped.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Kai spun around, the howl nearer now. A lone voice arching into the night.
But that’s impossible. A wolf couldn’t have covered that distance in so little time.
He dropped the dead jay, his hand moving to his knife. The long weary cry fell silent.
He listened.
Then he heard a soft patter of snow in the darkness a way off down the slope.
Or had he imagined it?
He listened again. Something was moving through the bushes. He heard the tinkle of falling crystals, the scuffle of fur in the snow.
His knife suddenly felt pathetically small. He cursed himself for a lazy fool. His sword was against the tree by the horses where he’d left it. Only twenty strides away, but just then it seemed an abyss. Without a second thought, he lurched towards it, the scamper of paws now all too audible in the shadows.
The horses whinnied, tossing their heads, while he heaved through the snow. Then, out of the night, a growl, sickeningly guttural, sounded beyond them. The bay reared up, hauling at its tether; the bridle snapped and he took off into the night. The others weren’t far behind.
Kai swore. Without horses in a wilderness like this, they wouldn’t last long. Though right now, admittedly, he had a more pressing problem.
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