by Zaya Feli
Rakkian squeezed his eyes shut and turned away. He didn't see the bodies collapse, but he heard the sounds as they were dragged to the edge of the platform for the blood to spill.
The Icefjord had been his home for eight years, only one year less than the Western Isles, and Rakkian remembered far more of his life here than there. Right now, Rakkian couldn't have felt farther from home.
The crowd erupted into cheers far louder than before, the sound rolling like thunder and reverberating in Rakkian's chest. People began to surge forward, flowing past him. They placed bundles of flowers and baskets of herbs and wheat onto the platform. The three women, dresses soaked red, handed bowls of blood to the people who approached, letting them drink. The bodies of the six sacrificed people were gone, floated into the red lake.
As gruesome as the scene had been, the aftermath lifted some of the discomfort from Rakkian's chest. The people were truly grateful. Couples carried flowers to the platform and embraced while men and women led their elderly parents forward to drink from the blood in hopes of good health.
A tug on the chain made Rakkian stumble forward. He looked at Isa, who waved for Rakkian to follow him towards the platform and one of the women with a bowl of blood.
“I don't think...” Rakkian's voice was drowned out by those of the people around him. He stopped beside Isa as the woman raised two fingers dripping with blood and painted a rune of health on Isa's bare throat. She handed him the bowl and he raised it to his lips and drank.
Rakkian watched with wide eyes as Isa lowered the bowl and offered it to him, lips stained red.
“I don't know if I can,” Rakkian said even as he accepted the bowl and raised, the blood black as ink in the darkness. The smell of it filled his nostrils. Isa tipped the bowl with a hand and Rakkian winced when the thick, still-warm liquid filled his mouth with the sharp taste of metal.
It wasn't as bad as he'd expected. He lowered the bowl with trembling hands; Isa grinned at him and he smiled back, overwhelmed. The woman dipped her fingers again and Rakkian tilted his head back and let her draw the rune on his throat.
Rakkian wasn't sure if it was the atmosphere or if the blood really had some divine effect, but as he followed Isa up the slope to the camp, he felt new energy flow from his belly and his muscles, a high he'd never experienced before.
CHAPTER NINE
The sacrifices had, if possible, worked the crowd up even more, all the anticipation of the afternoon finding release. Isa led Rakkian to the nearest fire, where six people were already passing horns of ale and mead and cooking two of the sacrificed chickens in a pan over the flames. Rakkian didn't recognize anyone from Ulfheim. That prompted a round of introductions and one pat on the shoulder that might have made Rakkian tumble headfirst into the fire if not for Isa's grip on the chain.
The meal was pleasant, if a little rowdy. Rakkian had learned years ago that he'd never be able to keep up with Norsemen when it came to tossing back alcohol, and although over half his conversations involved turning down drinks, Rakkian found himself enjoying the night more and more as it progressed. Two of the men shared heroic tales of their victories in the south that grew more and more unbelievable with every horn they emptied. A man and a woman sat close together, whispering things Rakkian couldn't hear, but which made both of them burst into giggles at random intervals.
They were all impressed with Isa, as none of the others were Runiks. Rakkian guessed it was the reason Isa had chosen this particular fire. All strangers, none of them aware of the curse that seemed to taint everything he did and said. Rakkian had never seen him in such high spirits. Isa drank nearly as much as the others and his smaller frame meant he grew drunk well before the other men. Even Rakkian, despite his attempts to hold back, felt the warm buzz of alcohol that made him laugh at jokes about the gods he didn't even understand. One of the women started a creative retelling of how Loki might have managed to give birth to Odin's eight-legged horse, Sleipnir, and Rakkian laughed along so heartily he nearly tumbled off his log.
“Sorry, friend, we just ate the last of the chicken,” one of the men said.
Rakkian looked up.
Karel approached the fire, hands inside his coat for warmth. He smiled. “That's quite all right. I've eaten already.”
The others moved over to make room for Karel to sit. He looked distressingly sober, not a hair out of place in the neat braid atop his head.
“Here,” Rakkian said, passing his horn across the fire. “Take mine. Ow.”
Karel took the horn from him and raised it in thanks, smiling at the way Rakkian rubbed his hand where the flames had bitten.
Rakkian was glad Karel had joined them. He wanted to be Karel's friend, too. “You're a really nice guy,” Rakkian said, voice raised to be heard over the wild tale the woman next to him had begun.
“We're all friends here, aren't we?” Karel asked. “Here.” Slipping a hand into his pocket, Karel withdrew a handful of what at first looked like tiny bones, but when Rakkian leaned closer, turned out to be mushrooms. They quickly drew everyone's attention, and Karel passed some around. Rakkian took a mushroom from him and held it up in front of his face. These mushrooms were innocent-looking, although he'd seen the effects when people in Halafjell ate them. Rakkian knew he would have never done it if he'd been sober, but right now, he couldn't think of a reason not to. He opened his mouth.
Isa closed a hand around his wrist. “Hey now. Ever tried that before?”
Rakkian shook his head.
Isa plucked the mushroom from his fingers and broke off a piece before handing it back to him. “Then start small. Small mushroom for a small boy,” he said, and when Rakkian hesitated, added, “Go on! Down it goes.”
Rakkian watched Isa and the others chew and swallow their mushrooms, some washing them down with swigs of ale.
Rakkian bit into his piece, prepared for a vile taste, but it tasted like...nothing. Nothing at all. Like eating a leaf. A very squishy leaf. The thought made him giggle. If all leaves were soft and squishy, he'd roll around on the forest floor all day long. He didn't see why Isa had made such a big deal out of a squishy little leaf-mushroom.
“Come here.” Isa tugged on the chain and Rakkian slid closer. Isa smiled at him and drew a knife from the waistband of his trousers.
Rakkian stared at it. Most people didn't carry weapons in Jættedahl and Isa definitely wasn't supposed to have one – Eskal's orders. “Where'd you get that?”
Isa shushed him and gestured for Rakkian to hold his hand against the log. When he did, Isa wiggled the blade into the crack in the metal cuff. A quick blow from the butt of the knife and the cuff opened and clattered to the ground. Isa stabbed the knife into the log where it stayed, upright.
“Thanks,” Rakkian said. He picked up the chain. When he looked back, Isa and Karel had gotten up. Karel gestured for Isa to follow him. Rakkian tried to get to his feet to go with them, but his head spun and he sat down hard, rubbing a hand over his brow.
A quiet whistle; the flutter of wings. When Rakkian looked up again, Skygge was perched on Isa's shoulder.
“Watch out for him,” Isa said to the raven. She tilted her head and flew to the log by Rakkian, regarding him with round black eyes.
“Hey beautiful,” Rakkian murmured, stroking a hand over her head. She was so, so soft. He wanted to mention it to Isa, but when he took his eyes off Skygge, Isa was gone. Rakkian frowned and tried to stand, more carefully this time. “Isa?”
Rakkian took a few laboured steps. Getting the hang of it, he looked around. There were people everywhere: men and women dancing, playing music and games, drinking and laughing and singing.
An excited clucking made Rakkian spin around. Nearby, Jari stood bent over one of the chicken cages. As Rakkian watched, he kicked the cage, making the nervous hens flap their wings.
“Hey,” Rakkian called out half-heartedly. “You stop that.”
Jari looked up at him, swaying faintly. His eyes were half closed. “Go away, w
estern rat,” he spat in an impression of Eskal and wandered away, stumbling.
An older man with a long, grey beard walked past Rakkian without a scrap of clothing on. The man opened his mouth and grinned, displaying the few teeth he had left, filed to points and painted blue. Rakkian stared as he skipped away.
A sharp sting made him look down. Skygge had pecked his leg just above the protective edge of his boot. He yelped belatedly, staggering and nearly losing his balance. “Ow! Skygge!”
She squawked and hopped ahead, looking over her shoulder before disappearing behind a tree.
“Wait!” Rakkian called, following her.
She called again, waited until Rakkian had rounded the tree, and hopped ahead once more, perching on a fallen branch. She stretched her wings, fixing Rakkian with her beady gaze.
“What do you want?” he muttered, navigating around an old raspberry bush whose thorns tugged on his trousers. It was dark, the only light coming from the full moon above. He'd had more to drink than he'd thought.
“Isa's gonna be pissed if I lose his bird.” Rakkian poked his tongue out, stumbling on a slight incline. “'Hey, Isa,' I'll say. 'I'm afraid I misplaced your bird. She might be in a tree somewhere. You know. In this forest of two million trees.' Ow!” Rakkian gasped as a root caught the tip of his shoe and he fell face-first into the leaf litter. Groaning, he spat out a twig, sat up, and brushed the dirt from his coat. Skygge was suddenly in front of him, her beak filling Rakkian's field of vision as she cawed.
“Skygge. What—” Rakkian paused, then frowned. He looked around. Skygge had led him to the edge of the camp. There were no people here – just trees, darkness, and silence. No, not silence. Rakkian tried to focus his hazy mind on what he was hearing. Voices. Whispered voices. And another, tenser voice. Rakkian raised a finger to his lips to hush Skygge. For once, she didn't caw.
As carefully as he could, Rakkian rose to his feet. Where were the voices coming from? Straight ahead? No, a little to the right.
Rakkian made his way forward. Torchlight appeared as he skirted a tree, illuminating three figures. Rakkian slipped behind the tree and held his breath.
They hadn't heard him. The whispers continued.
“I won't do it! Isa's my friend.” It was a woman's voice.
“All you have to do is tell the truth.”
“But it's not really the truth, is it?”
“Enough. You'll do as I say. If not, there's plenty of room for you in the red lake.”
Rakkian narrowed his eyes. They were talking about Isa and it sounded bad. Rakkian's heartbeat sped up. Skygge stood at his feet, watching him closely. Her feathers shone with a beautiful blueish light, glistening like she was covered in a layer of liquid metal. He squinted, forcing himself to focus.
“—bad will happen.”
Shit. He hadn't heard the rest of it. The tree felt strange against the palms of his hands. Rakkian stroked his fingers over the bark, feeling the bumps and creases as if the surface of the tree was an entire world in itself. He tilted his head back. The crown of the tree was far away, endlessly high. Glittering stars shone between the branches, so much brighter and more colourful than he'd ever seen them before. They were souls, he realised. All of them. “Valhalla,” Rakkian whispered, reaching towards the sky. If he just stood on the tips of his toes, he could reach them. A little higher. Higher. Maybe his family was up there – his mother and father, his grandmother.
The longer he stared, the more certain he became. When he lowered his hand, the darkness seemed all-encompassing. He didn’t know why he'd bothered to walk the whole way out here when all the fun was happening at the camp. He stood, not sure when he'd sat down, although his legs felt stiff from too long in the same position. Skygge landed on his shoulder, rubbing her beak through his hair. He smiled at the affection. “Let's go dance,” he told her, heading back towards the music.
* * *
“Right here. This one.” Karel pointed to the ship tethered to the pier furthest from the beach, looking over his shoulder to make sure Isa was still following.
Isa squinted in the near darkness, unsteady as he walked onto the dew-wet planks. Karel held out a hand towards him in case he staggered off the edge and into the water. He wouldn't be hopping in to save him, that was certain.
“Where?” Isa asked. “I can't see it.”
“Right there,” Karel said, pointing again. “You see? The rope's loose.”
“You couldn't have just handled it, could you? What were you doing all the way out here by yourself, anyway?” Isa grabbed the tether and yanked on it.
“I don't know anything about ships. Or knots,” Karel said. “And I was out here to take a piss.” He could feel his pulse, a steady tap-tap at his temple. Isa was clearly drunk. If he was capable of getting drunk, surely the mushrooms would take effect. He wondered if the Varg could sense his intentions.
Isa grumbled something about a Norseman not knowing how to handle a ship and grabbed the edge, pulling himself onto the vessel. He lost his balance and bumped into the mast. “You do know I've had two horns of mead and the mushrooms you gave me, right? You could have asked Torsten. Or Steinar.”
Karel didn't answer, just took a firm grip on the gunwale and pulled himself onto the ship. It rocked softly on the waves, making it feel like he'd had a few drinks despite having stayed dead sober all night. Water really wasn't his thing.
“There,” Isa said, tugging on the rope. “Nice and tight. I wonder what did it. These knots don't loosen by themselves.” He paused with the rope still between his hands, rubbing his thumbs over its surface. He seemed lost in thought for a moment, but Karel knew it was more than that.
Karel moved closer, kneeling beside Isa.
“Have you ever thought about how...” Isa's frown deepened. “Ropes are just made up of many smaller ropes.” His eyes narrowed. “Oh. It became wheat,” he added thoughtfully.
Karel raised an eyebrow. The mushrooms definitely had an effect on the Varg. He let himself relax a little, leaning against the side of the ship with his arms on the gunwale. Isa didn't move but stayed bent over the rope, running his hands along it like he was discovering rope for the first time. Karel kept quiet, giving the mushrooms time to take full effect.
Isa leaned back slowly, so far that Karel feared he might topple over backwards. He held a hand behind Isa's head just in case. He didn't want to be blamed for leading the former jarl's son to his death. A faint thrum of energy danced across his skin when his fingers grazed the back of Isa's neck and he withdrew his hand, frowning. That shouldn't have been possible. He had to be more careful around the Varg.
Isa didn't seem to have noticed anything. “Can you feel them, Rakki?” he whispered. “The gods.”
“I can feel them,” Karel said softly.
“They're speaking.”
“What are they saying?”
Isa sat up and looked at Karel, voice surprisingly clear when he said, “How the fuck am I supposed to know?”
Karel kept his amusement from showing on his face. He shrugged. “People say the Varg's curse is in you. The Varg is the gods' own creature. I thought maybe you'd be able to hear them.”
“Were you afraid?”
“Afraid?”
“When it attacked.”
Karel hesitated. What was the right answer? Before he could say anything, Isa spoke again.
“It hurt so much when it bit me.” Isa closed a hand over his shoulder, squeezing. “Tearing muscle, straight into my soul.” His face distorted with the memory, pain shining in his eyes. The mushrooms had blown his pupils wide, the blue all gone to black.
“What if...” Karel hesitated. He knew he had to be careful in case Isa remembered any of this in the morning. “What if the Varg isn't really gone? What if it's in you? Trapped inside.”
Isa let out a laugh so loud it scared a seagull sleeping on a nearby post. “That's funny. It's really funny. Wanna know why? Let me tell you.” He leaned close to Karel, placing a hand
on each of his shoulders until their faces were centimetres apart. “I'm too hopeless, Rakki. I didn't wanna kill anyone, you know. I never wanted to hurt anyone. I wanted to carve. I wanted to create, not destroy. All I do is hurt and kill and ruin, until this thing – this curse – ruins me.” He sighed deeply. “There couldn't possibly be a god inside me. I'm nowhere near powerful enough for that.”
Karel stared into Isa's black eyes. He didn't know what to believe. The Varg was hiding so deep inside him that not even mushrooms could coax it out. They needed something stronger.
Tomorrow, the wolves will gather.
His father's Runiks would find a way. Karel was sure of it.
“You, though. You're special,” Isa narrowed his eyes, grip tightening on Karel's shoulders. “They can't figure you out, can they? I can't either. I just know you're something special. I'm not gonna let Eskal hurt you again. I promise. You don't deserve that. I'm glad I saved you. You're good. Good and kind, not like me. You deserve to live. I hope Balder listens to your wishes.” Isa tried to draw him into a hug and Karel placed a hand on his chest to stop him, wriggling out of his grasp.
“All right, Isa,” Karel said, grabbing his arm and slinging it over his shoulders instead, careful not to touch bare skin. “Let's get back to the party.” He pulled Isa against his side and stood up, groaning under the weight. “Stand on your feet, man!”
Isa sighed like the task was too much for him, but straightened his legs. Karel managed to drag him awkwardly onto the pier. Isa's head drooped as Karel led him back towards the camp, his feet dragging through the grass. He'd find somewhere Isa could sleep it off. Many people already lay scattered around the camp, passed out where they'd been sitting. Others were still dancing and drinking.
Isa's legs gave out and Karel groaned as he was dragged down. Fine. This was as good a spot as any. He sat Isa against the curved trunk of a tree, grabbed a discarded blanket from a nearby camp circle, and draped it over his lap.
Karel knelt in front of him. Isa was out like a light. Fuelled by curiosity, Karel pulled the collar of Isa's coat aside. His eyes widened. There really was a mark on Isa's skin: dark, rootlike twists stretching from somewhere on the front of his shoulder. For the first time, Karel wondered what might happen to Isa. He was eighteen winters old, a year younger than Karel. Maybe the Varg really was killing him. A human body wasn't meant to hold a god. So it was a good thing, what they were doing, in a way. They would remove the Varg from Isa with the Jera rune and place it inside Ylva instead. Jera would keep the Varg under control and Isa would be free...unless he didn't survive the transfer. Karel bit his lip. He had no idea how his father was planning to go about the extraction. If –