The Blind Seer (Isolde Saga Book 3)

by Robert D. Jones

Ama snapped her fingers and the goblins sprang back to life. They were screaming and squawking, barring their needle teeth and glaring with coal-red eyes. Isolde saw them rushing, their iron blades intent on the kill. She took a deep breath and clicked her fingers. But nothing happened, the greenskins whooped, they were only seconds away, she felt her heart falter and clicked again. Nothing. It was too late, she whipped her sword from its scabbard and slashed out at the goblins. The first slash opened up the face of the leader, and the second sent blood spraying out of another and into the grass. And then they stopped. Ama had clicked her finger and the goblins were motionless, frozen in action, each ready to slice or stab her.

  Isolde sighed and turned around, she saw Ama walking back to the cabin, the back of her head shaking in disappointment.

  "Swords don't win wars," she said, "but brains do."

  "What am I supposed to do?" Isolde called out as she followed the old woman.

  "I don't know," Ama snapped, "maybe if we rip that stone out your shoulder. Yes... maybe then..."

  ***

  The candles flickered dimly in Ama's cottage, sending flickering shadows to dance between the dry stone walls, pots and pans, and hanging branches of various herbs. Isolde hadn't realised how fast her foot was tapping until the old woman told her to calm down. Her palms were sweaty, but it wasn't from the warmth of the stove fire, no, Isolde was terrified.

  "Take off your top," Ama said as she stirred a pot over the stove.

  Isolde glanced at the old woman's hunched back and Ama let out a cackle.

  "We're all women here, Isolde, do not be such a prude. I am not your handsome Harald, oh no, no, I have no interest in that young supple body of yours."

  A flush ran to her cheeks, but Isolde straightened her back and began to take off her furs. The top came off and with it an odour of sweat and work. It had been weeks since she bathed, she could feel the layer of grime coating her skin. Ama came shuffling over then and looked Isolde up and down, clucking her tongue softly in disapproval.

  "I don't like this," Ama said as her bony finger traced the lines of the runes cut into Isolde's chest, "Valarth seems to think himself an artist and a poet."

  "What does it say?" Isolde asked.

  "I will not speak these words," Ama said with her eyes piercing into Isolde's. "And believe me when I say, you do not want to know."

  Isolde tensed her fists, why won't she tell me? It's my body!

  "Does this hurt?" Ama asked as she prodded deep into the half healed hole that Valarth had put into her shoulder. The deep black, slug-like veins still crawled from the wound, pain exploded deep into Isolde's flesh at Ama's touch, and she screamed out. Ama clucked her tongue at the reaction.

  "This won't do at all," she said, "we are going to dig it out right away."

  Ama hobbled back to the pot on the stove top which was gently steaming away. With tender fingers, Isolde touched her cut.

  "Will it hurt?" she asked.

  Ama didn't reply, she took the kettle off the stove and poured the dark liquid into a wooden bowl. As it flowed, Isolde could smell the acrid scent across the room, as if a thousand millipedes had been crushed and stewed.

  "I don't have to drink that, do I?" she asked.

  Again, Ama said nothing, she plopped some fresh green leaves, as big as hands, into the bowl and brought it over to Isolde. She watched Ama as the old woman stirred the leaves and they began to wilt nearly at once.

  "No, you do not have to drink it," she said, "and, yes, it may hurt."

  Isolde grimaced at the thought and Ama shook her head.

  "A little pain can be a good thing," she said to Isolde, "if we get through the other side, you'll thank me."

  With that, Ama thrust her gnarled fingers into the soupy liquid and plucked out the leaves, she slapped them together and smoothed the mushy pulp into a poultice and spread it over the small cut on Isolde's shoulder.

  The leaves were warm and soothing and Isolde let out a sigh of relief as she felt the pain from her chest evaporate. Her muscles relaxed somewhat and for the first time, she realised how tense she had been.

  "It tastes like it smells," Ama said as she picked the wooden bowl back up, "but if you drink it, then the pain will not be so great."

  "You said I didn't have to drink it," Isolde pleaded.

  "You don't," said Ama, "but either way, I have to cut you open and pull this fiend out of you. Now, do you want the drink or not?"

  Isolde's heart faltered for a moment, but she took the bowl and looked deep into it. The liquid was dark, it rippled lightly in the bowl, and Isolde could see her face looking back at her. She saw herself screw her nose up, the smell was incredible, she had never experienced anything more repulsive. She took a deep breath, exhaled, and in one fluid motion, lifted the bowl, tilted it back and let the warm tea run down her throat.

  The taste was indescribable, the first thought that came to Isolde was grass... grass that had been fermented and left to rot, heated up and served warm. But it was worse because it was not only tea. As Isolde let the bowl drain, she felt the coagulated lumps of unknown herb lull into her mouth. When she put the bowl back down, these mushy lumps remained, and as much as she chewed, they would not go down.

  Her stomach felt it first, it lurched up in an attempt to expel the awful drink. Isolde clenched her jaw down and furiously breathed through her nostrils.

  "Don't bring it back up," Ama said, "you've already done the hardest part, now just swallow!"

  Her stomach lurched again, but Isolde would not be beaten. She pushed the air out her nose and swallowed. The gristly bits slid down her throat as slow as snails and the water reamed from her eyes.

  "Wash it down," Ama said and thrust the bowl back into Isolde's hands.

  She drank the last bottoms of the bowl, and the foul drink sent the herb down to her stomach. She breathed the free air in a great gasp and smiled. It was done.

  Isolde looked at Ama and the old woman smiled back, but the vision began to warp. Isolde rubbed her eyes, but still, the room began to blur.

  "Don't fight it, Isolde."

  Ama's voice came to her ears distorted, but she could still make out the words. It was as if the speaker were moving closer to her and then suddenly further away.

  "You will see things, but you have the power now, not her..."

  Her head was spinning faster and faster, she thought she was going to vomit. Soon the room was a stream of colour, swirling and twirling all about her. She felt her head lull over to one side. Did it weigh a tonne? Isolde couldn't tell, but her head was pulling her down now, and like a snake, the rest of her body followed. She was gone before she felt the thud of the ground.

  CHAPTER IX

  Harald's lungs burned, his heart was pounding, and his feet moved with a mind of their own. The mist was blinding, but he could feel the ground beneath him rising slowly at first before the ascent became quite steep. Burning thighs and calves screamed for rest, but he would not let up. Those things, those draugrs were close behind. He couldn't hear them under the sound of his own panting, but he knew they would be there. it was as if their eyes could see through the thick veil of fog.

  Those blue eyes were dead... yet still so alive... the thought made him shudder.

  He kept running, exhaustion beginning to get the better of him when he felt a cool breeze brush over his face. The mist, it was beginning to clear. It was still too thick to see far, but he could tell that he was indeed running up hill now. It gave him a second strength, and he stretched his legs with every stride. If I can get to the top, I can see the bastards before they come... A dry shriek sounded from behind, they were close.

  The sky cleared above him, the hill's top was at hand. He wanted to scream out, he needed too, but his lungs begged for breath. Snorri, Thodin, Skaldi and Dok were all there, just ahead, each with their back to him. The dog saw him first, his black shaggy fur swaying in the wind, and he came bounding over to say hello. I have to warn them! The rasping gasps of the d
raugrs were close behind.

  “Help!” Harald managed to cry.

  Snorri snapped around and bellowed out a welcome. But his plaited moustache quickly fell when he spotted the rotting skin of the beasts. He gave Thodin a nudge, threw up his cocked crossbow, and let a steel-tipped bolt fly. The arrow hissed passed Harald, so close that it brushed aside his hair, and the next thing he heard was the sickening crunch of rotten bone.

  Dok growled, low and menacing, and Harald span around to stand his ground. A second draugr was on him at once, its full weight slammed into Harald and he crashed to the ground. The fiend’s ice-blue eyes bore into him with hateful intensity. It’s skeletal fingers groped around Harald’s throat, but in an instant, a mass of black fur barreled over the draugr and ripped it away. By the time Harald got to his feet, he could see Thodin wrenching his axe from the third draugr’s skull, and Dok tearing apart the bones of the one that had pinned him.

  “That was close, Harald Grimeye,” Snorri said, “maybe next time you’ll stick close to the group.”

  Harald sighed in relief.

  “The fog,” he said, “I couldn’t see anything… and then those things, they came out of nowhere.”

  “Draugrs,” Skaldi said. “They’ve come down from the Barrow Mors.”

  “There’s hundreds of the rotten bastards about,” Thodin said, “we’ve already cut down more than our fair share, ain’t that right, Snor?”

  “Aye,” Snorri murmured.

  “I hacked away at one,” Harald said with wild eyes, “it didn’t feel a thing, it didn’t stop until I cut its head off.”

  “The boy’s a quick learner,” Thodin laughed, “you’ve got to brain this lot to keep them from moving.”

  “They should not be here,” Skaldi said.

  Harald looked around for a moment, they were on the crest of a hill, but to his eyes, it felt more of an island. Below them, the fog was so thick it was as if they were floating on a sea of white clouds. Stranded above with the restless dead shuffling unseen below.

  “Nay,” Snorri agreed, “the dead should rest.”

  “They were guardians at Mors,” Skaldi said, “but something is drawing them to Mousa.”

  Thodin looked at Snorri with wide, worried eyes.

  “He could be right,” Thodin said, “there weren’t much at Swona at all. The halls were near empty.”

  Skaldi looked at the dwarf and Harald watched as the old man studied the greasy hair and gold rings, the thick muscles and ugly scars.

  “What were you two doing at Swona?”

  “Nothing,” Snorri snapped, “nothing that concerns you anyway.”

  “Hmmm, is that right?” Skaldi said. “So, I suppose I can assume you will be doing nothing in Mousa too?”

  “Aye,” Snorri answered with a cocked eye at the old man.

  Skaldi turned to Thodin with a stern eye, like a grandfather warning a child to keep his mouth shut.

  “Nothing?” Skaldi asked Thodin.

  The younger dwarf shook his head like a dying cat and made a grumbling sound as he did it.

  “Alright,” he said, “we’re treasure hunting…”

  “You ass,” Snorri blurted at Thodin.

  “I couldn’t help it, Snor,” Thodin pleaded, “I can’t lie, you know it.”

  Snorri rubbed his chin under his beard and turned to Skaldi.

  “And what treasure are you hunting?” Skaldi asked with his eye brows arched high.

  “A book,” Snorri grumbled.

  Skaldi managed to raise his brows high still.

  “The Book of the Dead,” Snorri said with a sigh.

  Harald noted how the old man’s eyes instantly dropped, and his bushy brows furrowed deeply.

  “It wasn’t in Swona?” Skaldi asked.

  “If it were, we wouldn’t be hauling our sorry selves across to Mousa, would we?”

  “Who wants this book? Who are you working for?”

  “King Krazkul,” Snorri answered. “Why? What are you thinking?”

  “The fact that Krazkul wants such a book is concerning, but worse than that, the book is gone and the dead walk among us. This fog… it is unnatural, to say the least. Someone has the book and has used it.”

  Thodin snorted, “who would come out here. These lands are cursed, only fools go traipsing around the Silent Hills.”

  “There are not many who would risk it,” Skaldi admitted, “but there is one whose need outweighs the risk.”

  Harald looked at Skaldi with sudden realization.

  “Valarth.”

  CHAPTER X

  The throbbing glow of the walls could have been Isolde's head. But she knew this place, she had been here before. This is Orlog's world.

  The walls were that of a great cavern, the rock glowed a dull red as if it were in a constant state of melt. When she reached her hands out to touch them, she could even feel the warmth emanating from deep within.

  She walked around the strange land and despite having visited so many times before, she still felt lost within it. But this time was different, for as horrific and unnatural as her surroundings were, she didn't feel scared.

  She followed the hall-like cavern to an opening at the end. It was dark, with only the faintest yellow light flittering out the doorway. The silence was loud, it rang in her ears, and the crunching of grit under her boot sounded like towers collapsing to her ears.

  As she approached the opening, the cavern got tighter and tighter, the walls closed in and the ceiling lowered to meet the floor until she was forced to her knees and had to crawl. What is this madness... she thought as she scraped her knees on the rock.

  She squeezed through the hollow and wiggled into the dark room with the faint glowing light. It was hard to see, the silence here was worse than before, and the dim flickering light played tricks on her mind. She stood back up and felt her head sway from side to side as though her balance had suddenly fled her, or as if she had stepped onto the deck of a boat.

  The ground below was solid, she could feel that much, and as her eyes adjusted, she could see the form of great rectangular slabs standing before her. They were ominous and massive, she wanted to approach one and touch it, but fear poured forth from them. She could feel it as if it were the wind, but it was a feeling... maybe a warning...

  Isolde shook herself free from the anxiety and stepped up to the monolith. It was twice her height, jet black and polished so smooth that she could see herself in it. Mirrors... she thought as she touched the shadowy reflection of herself. Her tender hand reached up to the smooth surface, and the mirror-Isolde did the same, and as their hands met, she felt that fear enter her heart. It reached out and snaked its way down her arm and she gasped out in shock.

  She took a step back and looked at her reflection smiling back at her. Isolde couldn't tear her eyes away from the scene playing out before her. She watched her mirror-self turn and open her arms to some unseen person. Out of the deep black shadows, Hrothgar emerged, his grey beard and bald head looming up over Isolde's shoulder as he took her embrace. The shadowy Hrothgar looked up at Isolde through the polished stone and smiled. His eyes piercing and full of mischief.

  "No..." Isolde whispered and she took a step back.

  But as she did, her back ran up into another monolith. She spun around and saw a child crying in the polished mirror. She couldn't have been more than two years old, hair as gold as the sun. She was sitting on the floor, alone, scared, and crying. Isolde's heart leapt, she wanted to dive through the mirror and comfort the poor thing. But when she reached out, she couldn't get past the smooth surface.

  The child kept sobbing, her hands holding her face as she wept. Isolde couldn't take it, she put her hand lovingly on the glass as if it were the only thing she could do to soothe the child's pain. And as she did, the blonde-haired child stopped weeping, she took her hands away and looked up at Isolde. Isolde gasped at the recognition, the child was her. And as the little girl saw the recognition come into fruition, she began t
o speak, her lips moved but no sound would come, yet Isolde knew exactly what she was saying... why did you leave me...

  Isolde stepped back, this is insanity... How could these mirror-people see her through the glass? She looked up and down the dark room, the shadowy outline of monoliths were everywhere. They had been scattered like the walls of a maze so that no matter which way she turned, she couldn't help but see what nightmares lay within. There must have been at least twenty, but at the far end of the room, they all seemed to lead to one. The source of the light... above this great monolith, candles were burning, a hundred of them at least. Great helpings of dried wax ran down its edges, like tortured statuettes and it looked as if a thousand others had burned on top of the monolith before.

  She had to see what was within the great mirror, she had to know. But the others stood in her way. She stepped away from the crying girl and started to move. They can make me look, but I don't have to see...

  She passed Valarth in one mirror, his torturous grin leering out at her. Erik in another, his hands bloody as he beat at the glass in hopes of being free. She kept walking, doing her best to not see what was being shown. She saw Harald, he was fighting someone. Her eyes glanced over to the mirror, and she shrieked as her friend was cut down by shadow figures.

  Her heart was pounding, but still, she pushed on. She closed her eyes and walked and walked, but she had to know. She opened them again and passed a crowded mirror, full of faces laughing... they were laughing at her. Another showed her father, his face red with rage as he yelled silently through the mirror. She hurried on and whipped a tear from her eye until she was in front of the great monolith at the end.

  The candles gave her good light here, and as she looked in the mirror, she could only see herself. She lifted her arm, and the mirror's reflection did the same. She frowned in frustration. There was nowhere else to go, it was a dead end. If this was it, then she would have to turn back to the main cavern from where she came.

  But she kept looking into the mirror. Something inside her told her not to go back. She squinted into the black behind her mirror-self, but all she could see was swirling clouds of inky black. Isolde’s mirror self suddenly doubled over in pain, clutching at her womb, and in that moment, Isolde clutched at her own shoulder as pain stabbed deep into it.