“You need to call again. Keep trying.”
Her next attempt is more lackluster. The sgàilean push forward harder still, spraying water all around us.
Agatha wakes up and laughs, enjoying the speed. “Jaime, w-we’re going so — fast!” She rubs her nose and her ears.
“How do we slow them down?” I ask Nathara, but she has no answer. This was not the plan. I taste bile in the back of my throat.
I pull down hard on the wheel. The ship responds and we start to curve. If we circle until the sun rises, the light will force the sgàilean down, and I’ll regain control. There is a tug in the opposite direction, and the wheel spins back to its former position. What —? I try to pull it back, but whatever force is keeping it straight is too strong to overpower. Some of the shadows must have slipped down and altered our course from the rudder mechanism in the hold. Even with Agatha’s help, I cannot budge the wheel.
The two islands that Knútr described slide into view and then speed past soon after.
I abandon the wheel and turn to Agatha. “We can’t slow the ship down, so we’re going to have to prepare for our arrival. At least the darkness will give us a little cover. There is a knife with the food supplies, in that chest behind you. Put it in your belt and keep it there at all times. Once we’re on land, if anyone tries to hurt you, you hurt them first, understand?”
She nods and starts rummaging in the chest. We are hurtling toward the shore now. Several deamhan longboats are moored in the port to the west of us. They look the same as the ones that were used to attack our enclave. On our current course, we are set to crash into the shoreline about a mile farther south. The only way I can think of to keep that from happening is to cut down the sails, but if I do that, we’ll be stranded in the water and an easy target once the sun comes up. I leave the helm and jump down the few steps onto the main deck where Knútr is.
“We’re going to hit land south of the port. How far is that from where we need to go?”
“Less than half a day walking.”
“Fine. If you try anything — anything at all that makes me think you’re betraying us — you’ll regret it. Do you understand?”
“The little boy thinks he is so tough now. Do not worry. You have your people soon.” His smile causes thick lines to crease all of the tattoos on his face.
The shoreline is only a few hundred yards away now. Agatha is leaning against the wheel with the dagger in her waistband and a piece of meat in her mouth. How can she think about eating at a time like this? She spots the remains of Cray’s spear by her feet and adds it to her belt.
“We’re going to hit land soon. Hard. Hold on to something with both hands and prepare for impact.”
Both Nathara and Agatha do as I say. I grab hold of the mast supporting Knútr; if he breaks free during the crash, I want to make sure he doesn’t get far.
There is a small fishing vessel in our path. We collide with it head-on, smashing it into driftwood. Our ship doesn’t break speed. If anything, it seems to be moving even faster. Land looms nearer, and I brace myself for impact. Three, two, one—
The shock of the ship slamming into the coastline shatters the bow to pieces and splits the hull in two, the momentum carrying its top half skimming across the terrain. My head is whipped backward. I cling to the mast with both hands as we thunder along, torn splinters flying in all directions. Nathara wails, the noise drowned out by the annihilation of wood against stone.
We come to a juddering halt. The air is peppered with dust, which gets stuck in my throat and makes me cough. My cheek is grazed where it hit the mast at the moment of impact, but other than that I am not injured. I check on the others. Knútr is still secure, and Agatha is helping Nathara to her feet, dusting down the older woman’s clothes. I release a long breath.
There is a rustling above me and I look up just in time to see the entire sgàilean army leak down from the sails and disperse onto the land.
“Wait, no. Nathara — the sgàilean! Why are they leaving? You need to stop them!”
Nathara shakes her head as she watches them go. “They have waited a long time for this,” she says.
“But you said they would follow you. The Badhbh said — they serve the royal family. They’re not supposed to leave. Why have they gone?”
Nathara doesn’t give me an answer. I beg her to try and call them, but she insists they’re not coming back. Did she know this was going to happen? Did she let this happen? This is everything I had feared and worse. Our greatest weapon, our best hope. Gone. Not only that, but I’ve unleashed an army of assassins on an entire nation. Guilty by association is how the elders would have explained it. All life is precious is what Cray would have argued.
“What do we do now?” asks Agatha.
“The plan is still the same,” I say, choking on my own disbelief. “We go to meet the king. Take one of the lanterns with you. The sgàilean will come back to us. They are still on our side.” I hope.
I draw my sword and cut Knútr loose, ensuring that his hands are still tied, then stand behind him and place the sword across his throat.
“Lead the way,” I say.
We step off the remains of the ship, onto moist grass. My first impression of Norveg is how flat it is, especially compared to Scotia. It also has a very distinct smell: the freshness of seaweed, mixed with something smokier.
There is no one around as we start our walk inland. Knútr limps from the wound in his leg. Cray kept his word and healed the infection, but it’s still causing him pain.
It takes a long time for the sun to rise, and when it does, it is trapped behind a shroud of fog. There is enough light, however, to make out a settlement ahead of us. Their bothans are smaller than ours and made out of wood rather than stone. Something moves between two of the bothans; the deamhain are waking up.
“We need to take a detour,” I say.
“Too late,” says Knútr.
He’s right; some of them have already noticed us, and word of our presence soon spreads. Small groups of deamhain start walking toward us, striking their chests and yelling threatening words from their blue-lipped mouths. Some call Knútr by name. They’re all covered in similar blue-and-red tattoos, although each design is unique.
“Stay back!” I say, pressing the blade tight against Knútr’s throat. I make Knútr translate to ensure they obey. We must make quite a spectacle: a prince held hostage, a filthy woman with ankle-length hair, and Agatha, who — if Knútr is to be believed — would have been killed at birth if she’d been born here.
They stay back as instructed, but it doesn’t stop a growing number of them from following us. Many of them are holding weapons. As the crowd grows, it starts to feel less like we are being followed and more like we are being pushed.
“How much farther?” I ask Knútr.
“Close,” he says.
We walk over a hillock, and a snow-capped mountain range appears ahead of us. Knútr stops when he sees it.
“Why have you stopped?”
“The one in the middle. It is Sterkr Fjall, the home of the king.”
“Wait — the king lives inside a mountain?”
Knútr nods. “The king lives inside the mountain.”
The path leading up to it skirts around a loch, which contains the clearest water I have ever seen. The reflection of the mountains is almost mirror-perfect. I glance over my shoulder to make sure the group of deamhain is still keeping their distance.
A dark opening appears at the base of the mountains; a tunnel at least six feet wide. As we draw nearer, Knútr’s pace starts to slow. I nudge his back to encourage him to keep walking. When we reach the tunnel’s entrance, I pause.
“Inside is where your people are,” says Knútr, sensing my uncertainty. “It is only way to see the king.”
“Fine,” I say, “but no one enters with us.”
“Dvelið útan,” he calls out to the deamhain who have followed us here. They remain where they are, and we enter th
e mountain alone.
The moment we step inside, an aching chill washes over my body. Knútr leads us along the passageway, which slopes upward toward the heart of the mountain. There are torches fastened at regular intervals, which glow with a strange blue flame. Water drips down the walls. It smells of salty mold. We walk past many junctions and sharp bends. The tunnel gets narrower as we wind higher into the mountain, and I can’t shake the feeling that we’re heading into a trap.
After a time, the sound of people talking trickles toward us. It grows louder as we turn more corners, and then the tunnel opens up into an enormous chamber. It is full of deamhain. So many deamhain, all of them armed. I stand my ground, my sword still at Knútr’s throat. When the deamhain see us, they plummet into silence.
Someone starts clapping, a slow, patronizing clap. I search the room for the source of the sound. It is coming from a man on a large throne at the opposite end of the chamber. The respect he commands leaves no mistaking who it is: Konge Grímr, the Norvegian king. Several layers of animal fur are wrapped around his shoulders, and he wears a pair of antlers on top of his head, giving him a monstrous appearance. Unlike those of Knútr and the other deamhain, the braids in his hair are meticulous, and his silver beard is braided to three perfect points. His tattoos are denser than those of anyone else in the room.
He stops clapping and motions for his people to step aside. They obey, leaving a path all the way to the throne.
“Stay in your room stay in your room stay in your room stay in your room,” Nathara starts saying.
“Shhhh!” says Agatha, and Nathara obeys.
We edge forward, Knútr and me in front, Agatha and Nathara just behind. As I walk, I take in my surroundings. Eight spiral pillars twist up from the floor, carved to look like the trunks of great trees. Where they meet the ceiling, they branch out into a canopy of chiseled leaves, which rain down the mountain walls, transforming into scenes depicting fierce battles and bloody hunts. The same blue fire that lit the tunnels shines out of hundreds of lanterns, hung from chains at different levels throughout the chamber. Their light gives the engravings a soft, ethereal glow.
The cavern tapers to what must be the natural peak of the mountain, for, at the top, diamond-shaped holes have been cut through the walls, letting in a spattering of natural light. Above the holes, the highest point is covered in a blanket of white. At first, I mistake it for snow, until a few drops break away and swoop around the chamber. Great snow bats. I’ve heard about them before. They only live in the coldest regions.
I stop when we are about ten paces away from the king.
I swallow. Twice.
“I am Jaime-Iasgair of Clann-a-Tuath, the free people of Skye. You undùthfully enslaved our clan. I am here to demand their immediate release.”
Konge Grímr stands. The blue light swims across his dark face like moonlight on mud. He ignores me and addresses Knútr.
“Minn sonr, ak hugjisk dervar død,” he says.
“What did he say?” I demand of Knútr.
“I said I thought he was dead,” says Konge Grímr. He speaks our language much better than Knútr but still with a heavy accent.
“Yes. It is miracle, Father,” says Knútr. Is there a slight hesitancy in his voice? “Release his people and I am free.”
Konge Grímr considers this for a moment and then addresses me. “Jaime-Iasgair, of the free people of Skye, you say?”
“That is correct.”
“Sadly, no. That is not correct. You see, ‘the free people of Skye’ no longer exist. Nor does your home, as it is now occupied by our acquaintances from Raasay Island. The whole plan was theirs, in case you were wondering. They watched us invade Clann-na-Bruthaich and feared the same thing would happen to them. So they approached us with a proposition. It worked out rather well, don’t you think? They’re enjoying their new enclave, and your clan has been given a new life here. You should be thanking me. I have removed your people from the worthless existence they once knew and given their lives meaning, as servants to the great Øden, protector of us all.”
“Øden?”
Before replying, Konge Grímr takes a long pause, as if to digest my ignorance.
“Øden the Almighty: he who created the universe, he who controls the world. The One True God.”
“But gods don’t exist,” I say without thinking.
The king’s face, which up until now has remained impassive, erupts with rage. “I will not have you blaspheme in this mountain!”
The deamhain around us reach for their weapons. Konge Grímr holds up a hand to restrain them, and his former composure returns.
“You have so perfectly demonstrated what a heathen you are,” he says. “All of your people are heathens. That is why Øden sent us to show you the truth.”
Is he crazy? I know that in the past some clans used to worship invisible entities, but they never used them as an excuse to murder and enslave people.
“Release my people or I will kill your prince,” I say. My voice sounds more confident than I feel.
“Will you, now?” says the king.
“I mean it. I’ll kill him right here in front of you.” My threat sends ripples through the gathered deamhain. Knútr shuffles. “Just like you did to Lileas,” I add in his ear.
“And then what?” asks Konge Grímr.
“What do you mean?”
“If you kill him, you have no hostage, nothing to bargain with. Stuck in the heart of a mountain, surrounded by one hundred of my greatest warriors. You think you will fight your way out?”
“I’m hoping it won’t come to that.”
“Three people against one hundred? Not even three people. One child, one old lady, and that, which I would not even call a person.”
“Say that again and I will tear — tear out your eyes!” Agatha shouts. “I am not afraid.”
The deamhain laugh at her.
“I like her,” says Konge Grímr.
“This is your only son, is it not?” I say.
The laughter dies.
“It is,” replies the king.
“The prince of Norveg, your only heir. If the great Øden ordained that you should be king, then surely he granted you this son to rule after you when you die. Do you really want him murdered in your own chamber? While you do nothing to stop it from happening? Murdered by the clan that your great Øden commanded you to overcome? Do you really want that to be your legacy?”
That came out better than I expected. This might actually work. The king winds his fingers around the central braid of his beard while he thinks.
“You are right,” he says at length. “He is my only son. I should be thanking you for returning him to me.”
Yes. Finally. “Then let us discuss the terms of the trade,” I say. “You will release my clan immediately. All of them. And provide us with enough longboats to sail back to Skye, plus food and supplies for the journey. Only when everyone is safe on board will I release Knútr. Understood?”
But Konge Grímr has stopped listening. He turns to the deamhan next to him and reaches out his hand. The deamhan hands him an ax. The glint of its blade flashes in the firelight. The king weighs the ax in his hand and then launches it straight at me.
The ax lands in Knútr’s head, splitting his skull in two, covering me in his brain. His body becomes dead weight, and I have no choice but to drop it. It falls to the floor in an ugly mess. I stare at it, at him, my mouth agape.
“You see,” Konge Grímr says, “my son, the esteemed Prins Knútr, may have informed you that he was the only heir to my kingdom — which is true — but what I’m sure he failed to mention was that he was also cowardly, irresponsible, and disrespectful of my authority. Which is why I ordered him to be thrown overboard and left to drown. I would rather have no heir than leave everything I have spent my life fighting for to someone as unworthy as him. But I must thank you for returning him to me. I thought he was already dead, but it was much more satisfying to kill him myself.”
I can’t breathe. My chest is a knot, weighing me down.
“Take these creatures out of my sight. Tonight we will witness their execution. In the name of Øden and all that is holy. Takan frott þeim!”
Rough arms grab me. Someone thumps my hand, making me drop my sword. I let it fall. Agatha screams, but the sound is far, far away.
I offer no resistance as I am dragged out of the chamber.
I AM THINKING WHAT I CAN DO. I DON’T LIKE IT IN HERE. It is so dark and I have to get out or they will kill us. That is what the man king said. He had antlers on his head which was stupid and he killed the nasty deamhan Knútr. It was an ax in his face and it was horrible to see it, even though I hated him.
I don’t know where Jaime is or the Queen Nathara. They are in a different place. I called their names but they didn’t say anything which means they aren’t here. Maybe they can’t hear me because of the walls. I am still inside the mountain. The room is dark and a small one. I can’t remember well when they brought me in because they were holding me and I didn’t like it so I was trying to get them off and screaming and trying to bite when they covered my mouth. I’m not supposed to do bad things when I’m angry but it is different with the deamhain and I couldn’t stop it and I didn’t even want to stop it or care. Then it was dark when they closed the door and I cannot see a single thing. They took my knife away and also the piece of spear that was a present from Crayton and I wished they didn’t do that. I moved all around to find the walls which is how I know it is a small room and that no one else is here. I tried to find the door by hitting on all the walls but I couldn’t find it and it doesn’t open because it is locked.
I do a lot of shouting but no one answers. I sit down on the floor which is cold and also wet.
“Have you quite finished?” says a voice that is quiet.
“Who’s there?” I say. I am not scared.
“You mean you don’t recognize my voice?” the person says. “Forgotten about me already, have you?” I can’t hear it very well. It does sound a bit like I know it.
“Where are you?” I ask, and I stand up and move my hands around even though I know the person is not in the room with me because I checked.
The Good Hawk Page 21