Land of the Gods (Isolde Saga Book 4)

by Robert D. Jones

  Aghhhhhhhh...

  A scream pierced the silence, but it was distant and warped. Harald's heart faltered and he jumped to his feet.

  "Isolde!?" he cried out.

  Silence was his only reply and he strained his ear to hear anything.

  Her body... the thought came to him in flash, why would she enter the skull if her body was so close!? Harald paid no heed to the magic circle he had conjured or the skull and bones of the man he had disturbed. His mind was focused on one thing... Isolde.

  CHAPTER X

  Isolde choked on the ice water as she came to her senses. The bright light had dissolved away into the dark gloom of the temple’s underworld. Her body burned from the cold and she screamed in agony. Her muscles were as rigid as cold rock and she could barely breathe. The pain was unbearable.

  She screamed a second time, hoping that someone, anyone might help her and out of the inky black of the far doorway came Harald, bolting in to help her. He wrenched her out of the icy water and threw his worn furs over her shaking body. A new burn ran through her now and she sobbed as the frozen nerves in her muscles began to feel again.

  "Wh-wh-what happened?" she asked through chattering teeth.

  Harald was looking down at her in amazement, she knew he had done something he wasn't supposed to because he hadn't answered yet.

  "I'm sorry..." he said, "I had to get you back, it wasn't safe anymore."

  Isolde laughed through chattering teeth.

  "No," she said, "it was the most dangerous place I had ever been..."

  The sound of iron-shod shoes echoed through the chamber as unseen boots carefully made their way down the step.

  "What's all this screaming?" Snorri cried.

  He took one look at the pair and hollered back up the stone steps for help. He and Harald picked up the prone Isolde and took her back upstairs. The real world seemed so strange to her now, it seemed so innocent as though everyone here lived in a bubble of make-believe safety.

  It didn't take long for the group to get together in Vis's private chambers. Skaldi had put Isolde next to the open fire and wrapped her in furs to bring her muscles back to life. Her body still felt numb, but at least the pain was gone. What was disturbing her now though was the way everyone kept glancing over at her, and the fact that Vis hadn't taken his blind eyes off of her.

  "You've changed," Skaldi said to her.

  "Of course she has," the old priest chided in, "she has lived in a nightmare."

  Isolde didn't say anything, there was really nothing she could do to help them understand the world that stands just beyond their own. There was no point in it, in any case, they would never go, so they could not help.

  "I have to go back," she said softly.

  The group murmured in quiet outrage, but Harald nodded silently. She wondered how her friend had grown so much in so short a time. Did he know things the others didn't or had he begun to understand that he had little control over the situation?

  Skaldi shushed everyone in the room and turned to look at Harald.

  "Did you make contact?" he asked.

  Harald nodded, "we have permission so long as we set them free afterwards."

  "Good... good... it is the right thing to do..."

  "Permission for what?" Isolde asked, but before anyone could answer, Harald spoke again.

  "There was another... thing... with me. He said he was a demon, a duke of some kind. He said he was going to hurt Isolde, that's why I pulled her out."

  Skaldi nodded slowly and Vis spoke up.

  "Demons that pass through are either powerful fiends themselves or have the backing of powerful patrons. It was a wise thing to do Harald."

  "It doesn't matter," Isolde said, "because I have to go back anyway. The only good this has done us is that I have an idea now."

  A silence fell over the room and all eyes were on Isolde.

  "What did you get permission to do?" Isolde asked Harald.

  "To raise the dead. We are going to use the draugrs to fight Hrothgar."

  Isolde nodded but she felt a heaviness in her heart.

  "Necromancy is a black art," she said.

  The group agreed with silent nods and eyes turned down.

  "I met a man down there," Isolde said, "his name is Marco de Scopa."

  Skaldi picked up his eyes and looked at Isolde.

  "I have read his works. A dark man, an evil man..."

  "I know," Isolde said, "but..."

  "But nothing," Skaldi cut her off. "He wrote a volume called la Magia Malvagia del Vivere... it means The Black Art of Living. He was so devoted to this thing called the living flame that he had half of Scopa worshipping it before they even knew what it was. Do you know how that book ends, Isolde?"

  "He slit his wrists in hopes of reaching immortality. I know, I have seen it," she said.

  "That was the final step in his immortalità divina ritual. But did he tell you how many thousands of innocent people did the same on that black night?"

  Isolde's memory stepped back to the underground room full of men. Nicolo had said he was from Scopa... they all were. They must have been the victims of Marco's beliefs. She shook her head slowly, there was something about Marco that she trusted.

  "He sees things differently now," Isolde said.

  "The sky is always clear after the storm, Isolde," Skaldi said, "but that doesn't mean the storm never happened. Why do you want to go back?"

  "I don't want to," Isolde said. "But the job isn't done and I have a promise to keep."

  Skaldi raised his eyebrow.

  "What promise?"

  "The souls in Bezhaal's kingdom do not rest easy," she said. "But I can help them. If I destroy Orlog's soul then it will be a blow against the demon god that the people there can use to try and make things right."

  "And what is the cost?" Vis asked with a rasping voice.

  Isolde sighed and her eyes flickered to the floor.

  "I can destroy Orlog's soul, but then I will have no bargaining power to free my mother or to get back. Bezhaal will trap me there forever..."

  The group murmured and Isolde hushed them.

  "I have an idea though. Harald can summon me back, but the timing has to be perfect and I do not know how to do it."

  Harald nodded and clapped his hands.

  "That's perfect!" he said, "You can bargain your mother free, destroy the soul, and I can pull you back out."

  "How will you get the timing right, Harald?" Skaldi asked. "Once the soul ruby has left Isolde's hands, she will have no reason to be spared by Bezhaal. He might just as easily rip her apart on the spot."

  The group went silent in thought and the fire crackled in the background as an idea formulated in Isolde's mind.

  "When Harald summoned me back, there was a moment where I could hear his voice before I was pulled away."

  Skaldi smiled, "use it as a warning. Let Harald do half the ritual and then stop before he starts again."

  "That will work," Isolde said. "You give me a day in there… that should give me enough time to get to Bezhaal. When I hear Harald's voice for the first time, I will know to make my move."

  "I will give you five minutes between the warning and the real summoning?" Harald asked.

  "That's perfect," Isolde said with a smile to Harald.

  Vis cleared his throat and looked at the two young companions.

  "It's a dangerous game you both are playing. If you don’t get the real summoning done in time, Harald, then you might never see her again. Do you trust this young man enough with your life and soul, Isolde?"

  Isolde felt a hard lump form in her throat, but she nodded. She did trust him.

  CHAPTER XI

  Entering Bezhaal's netherworld was not easier the second time. Isolde knew what was to come when Harald held her under the icy waters in the crypts of Heroth Nuir. She knew the pain of drowning, the panic and sudden gasp, how the icy water would fill her lungs. But she was here now, back in the lonely square of the Piazza
del Toro it seemed. The demons were gone, Marco was nowhere to be seen, and Orlog had obviously sulked back to the castle after her prize slipped away.

  Isolde looked around at the decrepit city sprawling out before her. It was worrying that the people hadn't come out of hiding and she felt saddened at not seeing Nicolo. She wondered what befell him, if he couldn't die here, then maybe he was still free. It didn't matter now, in any case, the journey before her was her own, and she did not have long to make it.

  The black castle rose high in the centre of the slummy sprawl. It wasn't too far away, its craggy towers jutting up into the gloomy sky. It was an ominous thing in this hellish place, like an ever watchful eye, a constant reminder of the tyrannical overlord.

  A long, menacing horn thundered into the sky from the dark keep she was studying. Isolde's presence had been noticed.

  She didn't flinch at the sound, and as other horns blasted out around the city, each one getting a little closer to her, she simply smiled. This time she wanted to be found, it would be the quickest and easiest way to get to the castle. Isolde took her first step toward the keep and left the piazza behind her. She walked in the middle of the rutted mud streets, her shoulders back and head held high. She slipped her hand around the horn she had fashioned from the demon she had killed and blasted it into the air of the infernal city. If they were coming for her, she would let them know she was ready.

  A demonic squad rounded the corner ahead and evil eyes glared at Isolde. She looked at them, their feral fur and blood red eyes. She gave another blast from the horn and the eyes of the demons seemed to falter as they looked to their leader for guidance.

  "Take me to your creator," Isolde commanded.

  The devils stood their ground, looking at her in bewilderment. Another group swept up from behind the alley and she was cut off as the witch Orlog slipped up among the ranks.

  "Take her," Orlog rasped, and the demons flooded away as they sprung forward as one.

  Isolde felt the calm within, and with a snap of her finger, the world froze around her. The demons became life-like statues, carved in the motion of frenzied assault. But a cackle sounded from behind them, and Orlog stepped forward.

  "You are in a land of gods," she laughed, "you didn't think your tricks could outwit the creator, did you?"

  Isolde felt her heart stop dead in her chest. A lump formed in her throat as she realised she had not expected this. She might have been stronger than Orlog, maybe even stronger than Bezhaal, but this was their realm, they were the ones who made the rules here. The Black Witch raised her decrepit arms high above her head, and with a wicked grin clapped them together and the world exploded back into life. The demons lunged forward and before Isolde could react, she was crushed by the weight of fur and muscle. She screamed out as she felt the horn slip from her grip and the tight cord holding it went taught around her neck. Thick fingers and long nails gripped into her skin, forcing her down by the shoulders until she was on her knees before Orlog. Isolde cried out again as one of the devils twisted her arm high up her back, she thought the fiend was going to tear it right out of her socket, and something within Isolde knew he would do it gleefully if given the order. She was at the mercy of the Black Witch.

  "You are a precious little thing, Isolde," Orlog said with the gleam of a smile breaking across her lips. "I did not expect you to show so much strength..."

  Isolde spat at the feet of Orlog and the witch laughed again before nodding at the demon. She felt the explosive pain of her arm jarring up and her shoulder bulged out as it threatened to pop from its place. A second nod told the demon to ease himself and Isolde gasped as the pressure released a little.

  "Give me the ruby, Isolde," Orlog demanded.

  Her eyes were intense, holding Isolde's defiant stare. But Isolde noticed something in Orlog, it was desperation hidden deep beneath the hate and faux confidence. She could see it, a flicker of doubt in the eye, a light twitch below the left lid. No matter how much Orlog wanted to, she could not take the ruby soul. She had lost it to Isolde, and Isolde knew that Orlog could only get it back if she gave it to her freely.

  "Take me to Bezhaal," Isolde said.

  "Why?" Orlog snapped.

  "So that I can trade this wicked soul for something I need. I did not come to return it freely, you have something I want and I mean to get it."

  "Your mother," the witch barked out a laugh. "We have had our fun with her. I have had my vengeance. You can have what scraps are left."

  The witch looked up at the devil holding Isolde and tilted her head to the side. Isolde felt the sharp blow that came like solid steel crushing through the back of her head. The pain exploded for a moment before the darkness swallowed her and the world disappeared.

  ***

  "I don't like it, Skaldi, I don't like it at all..."

  The rough voice of Snorri sounded like a distant echo to Harald. He slipped his hands off of Isolde's limp body and let her lifeless corpse float to the top of the icy pool.

  "What is going to happen to the boy?" the dwarf went on. "Raising the dead, desecrating their bones, murdering the innocent? This doesn't sit well, Skaldi, not well at all."

  Harald stepped away from Isolde and looked at the dwarf.

  "I will be fine," he said, though his head still felt vacant as though he were in a dream.

  The dwarf shook his head and grumbled as Skaldi spoke up.

  "I don't like it either, Snorri, but the actions are not malicious. Harald's intent is pure, we can hope that any judgment on him will consider that fact."

  "The dead care not for our purity..." Snorri grumbled.

  "He is right," Harald said, "but it doesn't matter. I have no choice, so there is no point in complaining."

  Snorri shook his head and stormed back up the stone steps. Thodin gave Harald a longing look of desperation before he followed Snorri, leaving Harald only Vis and Skaldi for company.

  "The dwarf is right, Skaldi," Vis said, "These are dark tidings for your boy. His soul will be blackened a deeper shade of evil."

  Skaldi sighed, "I know, I know. The choice has always been Harald's, if it were a task I could bear for him I would, but I cannot."

  "I don't mind," Harald said. "Whatever comes will come. I know my self, I know who I am, what I have done, and why I do it. I don't know who you think will judge me, but when the time comes, I can defend and justify myself."

  The two men looked at Harald with pitiful eyes. Vis's mouth was twisted in a deep frown and Skaldi shook his head as though to say that Harald didn't know what he was talking about. But it didn't matter to Harald, there was a job to do and he was going to get it done.

  CHAPTER XII

  The deep throbbing pain in the back of her head woke Isolde. She opened her bleary eyes to a spinning room of bare stone and had to steady herself as she sat up to make the world sit still. With tender fingers, she touched the back of her head and checked for blood, but the blow hadn't broken the skin, it had only left her with a lump the size of her fist.

  She cursed the confidence she had that led her to be captured so brutally and slowly stood herself up. The room was small, just wider than the span of her arms and only a little bit longer. A heavy iron grill locked her in on one side, and a thin barred window broke the dark stones opposite it. She rattled the iron gate hard but the thing wouldn't budge at all. She squeezed her head up to the grills to try and see down the stone corridor but it was no use.

  This must have been Bezhaal's dungeon, the maddening prison that Nicolo had spoken of. She turned around to the window which was just high enough that if she tippy-toed she could see out of it. As she stretched herself high to see through it, Bezhaal's kingdom sprawled itself outward miles below her. The streets and houses looking like nothing more than the patchwork on an embroidery.

  "Like the view?"

  The rasping voice made Isolde's stomach turn and she lost her grip on the window before slipping back down to the cold floor. The voice cackled and Isolde tur
ned to see Orlog standing on the other side of the wrought iron gate.

  "We let our long-term guests stay in these cells," the witch explained. "We make them watch their world below stay the same day after day, year after year. It drives them mad."

  Orlog gave Isolde a grin of pleasure that made her feel sick inside. The fiend enjoyed the torture, she was made for the chaos.

  "Take me to Bezhaal," Isolde said.

  Orlog's grin fell from her face at the order.

  "He will see you when he is ready," she said.

  "Now," Isolde replied. "Unless you don't want your soul back."

  Isolde slipped her hand into her jacket and took the ruby out. It had done the trick and she smiled inwardly as she watched Orlog's eyes pin to it like a dog for food. Isolde tossed it up and down with her hand and lapped up the barely contained constraint that Orlog showed in not diving for it through the bars.

  "Okay," Orlog hissed.

  She unbolted the door and Isolde slid the ruby back into her furs. The stairs Orlog led Isolde up were steep, each step a little too high so that after a handful of paces, her legs were burning. This was no doubt another torturous trick, the last joke on any prisoner forced to climb to his cell. But she did not complain, she kept up with the witch who seemed to take the strides with ease, as though pain were nothing to her.

  By the time they reached the top, Isolde was gasping for air, but the scene of Bezhaal's inner chamber still managed to take her breath away. There was no entrance door, the steps simply ended and a great hall of dark stone columns began. Here there were no tapestries or paintings, no great works of art or intricate engravings. There was only the dark, smooth stone. Great slabs making up the floor, and even greater blocks for the walls. Small fires flickered in pits at the base of each pillar, throwing shadows through the room, and Orlog led her past each as they approached a great stone throne.

  The shadows felt as though they deepened as she passed each column. The air grew heavy and she could feel the presence of an unseen force. Orlog stopped only a few feet away from the throne, and as Isolde caught up, she stopped dead and marvelled at the great swirling mass of chaos before her. Carved into the stone below the throne itself was the head of a serpent, large enough to swallow a swarm of men whole. Yet it was what was within the beast's mouth that horrified Isolde. Blue light, like the sea, chopping and churning and crashing, slurping back into itself as hands and faces reached out as though souls were struggling to breathe in a winter squall.