Obsidian

by Suzie Wilde

  Nothingness.

  Bera tasted iron. She had seen the last days of the known world – and some Valla part of her exulted.

  The Warden said, ‘I don’t want to know what you saw. Your face was…’ He had no words.

  ‘I am n-not m-m-mad.’ She must have bitten her lips.

  This was worse than her own inner darkness. No one must ever look into the looking-glass again – but Bera knew she must. She would have to look a third time, to find out how to stop the chain of fire getting started. She was a link between a dead Valla and her living granddaughter – so she could break the whole chain, couldn’t she?

  First signs of madness.

  The Warden put a beaker to her lips. ‘Try to drink this.’

  ‘Obsidian was made at the beginning of time and I have just seen its end.’ Bera gulped down the sweet water then pushed the beaker away. ‘I have to hurry. It’s clear to me now. I must find the right place and… destroy it.’

  Did the looking-glass tell you that? Do you know what it means?

  ‘I only know that no one else must look in it.’

  ‘Do you know where you have to go?’ asked the Warden.

  Bera got to her feet. ‘Yes. The stone told me.’

  You have no idea.

  Bera wanted to kick her skern. ‘If you hadn’t interrupted the ancestors I would know!’

  They’re poets, they like the sound of words…

  ‘Then I must let you. Anyone who could release the stone from its tower must be trusted.’ He raised the candle.

  ‘And as you see, I’m not mad.’

  Ha!

  The Warden moved past her and stood right over the stone he had spent his life guarding, keeping the candle from dripping, unable to tear his eyes away from the stone’s perfect, sable sheen.

  ‘Do you think I…’

  Bera snatched it up and pushed it up under her tunic, away from his sight.

  ‘I wish you a long and peaceful life,’ she said.

  He made the Brid cross and nodded. ‘How will you escape?’

  She had no idea. ‘I am Brid, I will think of something.’

  ‘You are not Brid.’ He crossed himself again.

  ‘All right, I’ll tell you who I am. I am a true Valla, a healer of the earth, with a mother and daughter to help me, and that’s a better threesome than your old Brid any day!’

  She set off, fuming, and barged into a stool. Her wounded leg hurt a lot and started to bleed again.

  ‘Thou must first heal thyself,’ muttered the Warden.

  Bera grabbed his candle, which was almost too thick for her hand, and started down the steps. It was easier to see but her leg was hurting badly. When she reached the first level, where the clay bowl was, she felt her skern’s long nails cling tightly to her neck. Then they were past, and finally back amongst the reeking carcasses.

  ‘Take off your boot.’ The Warden went into a small cell.

  Bera felt a deep pity for the man, spending his whole life in such a place. Well, there was nothing to guard now. Had she freed him by taking the stone, or made it worse? He came back with a linen cloth and made a pad. She remembered the pot of salve the old crofter had given her and took it from her apron. She daubed some on, put the pad beneath her leggings and then strapped on her boot. It would have to do.

  ‘Time to go,’ she said. ‘See where the warders are.’

  She followed him to the door. He carefully opened it a crack and peered out. In the narrow shaft of light there was something noble about his poor, frozen face. Bera put a hand up to it and something quickened under her fingers. The muscle had only numbed; it wasn’t dead. This was new, to glimpse the future in flesh. Perhaps Obsidian also brought out the good.

  ‘One day your face will be restored,’ she said. ‘Perhaps when you are free of this burden. Your friend Cronan can help, with his herbs and love, now you have nothing to stay for in here.’

  He shook his head. ‘The Abbot will have me killed. Either the warders will kill me now or sometimes the Abbot likes to watch transgressors die. Slowly with poison.’

  Bera rummaged in her apron again and silently thanked the old crofter, hoping she was still alive.

  ‘If it’s wolfsbane, I have a remedy.’ She gave him the leaves. ‘They don’t look much now, but being dried should double the potency.’

  He thanked her. ‘But keep them for yourself. Wolves and men will be out for blood… and I wanted so much to have Cronan near me when I died.’

  ‘Let’s try this,’ she said. ‘I’ll put a knife to your throat as we go outside. You tell them I pretended to be dead from a wolf attack and surprised you. That I forced you to give up the stone and will slit your throat if they come near us.’

  His eyes smiled. ‘I’m supposed to slit my own throat if I fail. Still, we must go outside and face whatever fate is in store for us both.’

  Bera got her knife ready. ‘I feel a deeper Valla strength. We make our own fate and I must succeed.’

  They went out together.

  24

  There were no warders to be seen – and no wolves. Bera put away her knife and went to take the man’s hand. He brushed it away.

  ‘Go well. Remember, fierce young woman, that you bear the weight of trust.’

  ‘Believe me, it’s easier than bearing the weight of mistrust.’

  Then she ran. The trolley was still tied to its post, suggesting the warders had never got as far as the tower, or surely one of them would have had the sense to stop her means of escape. They must have thought she would head straight to the main gate. She tried to clamber up onto the platform but her injured leg could take no weight. The black glass dropped out from under her belt and squatted on the grass like a toad. Did it want to stay in the tower? Bera sternly picked it up and tied it into her shawl. She was determined to be its master and told it to stay there.

  Bera managed to hoist herself up to sit on the trolley and then swing her legs round. She stood up to look towards the main gate. The wolves were ranged along the slope, facing a line of armoured warders, whose backs were to the moat. Of course: the trolley didn’t matter because there was only one way out and she had no choice but to go there. She slipped the rope and fear struck her.

  ‘Have they captured Heggi?’ she asked her skern.

  The trolley set off before he could answer, uncontrollably rattling towards the moat. His teeth chattered. She would have to wait for his answer until it stopped but until then she needed to plan, especially if Heggi was in trouble.

  The bridge was still raised and Bera made the most of her chance to take in the situation. There was no sign of her son and her worry increased. Suddenly anxious her skern’s silence was a kind of vanishing after their ordeal, she checked to make sure he was still there.

  He winked.

  The pack leader’s mind was a closed, barbed fist, with no way in. Or she didn’t want one. The wolves made rushes at the outer flank of armed men, who threw themselves into the water to escape. Bera could hear their cries and when she was closer she saw them tugging at their breastplates, which were dragging them down. The rest regrouped to face the pack: death behind and death before them. If they lowered the bridge to save themselves, the guards would let the wolves into the outer compound. There were some grey bodies on the ground but the smell of bloodlust was in the air.

  Bera felt remorse for both sides. Had she brought ruin to everything in this isolated community? Perhaps… but without taking Obsidian it would be in ruins later, along with the rest of the world. She had seen where she must take it but what she must do then was unclear – or how it would stop the end of days.

  One step at a time, step at a time, step at a time, the trolley chided her.

  It clanged against its stop and Bera was at the bridgehead and close to the fight. The warders were too occupied to notice her. She had to move but just as before, a bodily threat had deadened her limbs.

  Then the wolf’s saw-edged joy of killing made her own blood lea
p. They were as one. For a moment she was leading the pack, snarling with the battle-hunger of the berserk.

  This is not your fight!

  With a struggle, Bera closed her mind to him.

  She looked at the raised bridge but dared not lower it. There truly was only one means of escape. She jumped down on the far side of the trolley, to screen her from the fighters. The water in the moat was thick and black, like pitch. Bera took some slow breaths, hitched her dress into her apron and tightly tied her shawl high on her back. The glass fitted smoothly against her shoulderblades, as if it was suiting its own needs. She belted her sword sheath over it, to show who was in charge. Dellingr had made the sword small and light, just for her, and it was part of her. She took several more long, deep breaths. Fishermen chose not to swim so they would drown quicker. She and Bjorn had never learned.

  Oh do hurry up.

  ‘I can’t swim.’

  It’s floating, like you did at Smolderby, only thrash your arms and legs more.

  ‘I nearly drowned at Smolderby.’

  The rough boys in Seabost could swim. If they could do it, so could she. But how? Her skern knew nothing; if she tried to float on her back Obsidian would drag her down. Rakki could swim like a fish. Bera decided to become the dog. She opened her mind, felt his joy of the chase, and jumped.

  The ice-grip on her skull forced her upwards, gasping. She tried to breathe but choked and sank. The water was not as salty as the sea and tasted of poison. Her wounded leg was too weak. There were no shallows she could reach and the other side was too far. Obsidian wanted to drown her. To Hel with it! Help me, wretched dog! Full of love for Rakki, Bera kicked strongly and was breathing again. She pulled hard with her arms and managed to keep her mouth on the waterline. This gave her confidence and she paddled as furiously as Rakki, understanding it from the inside.

  Why would the wolves never enter the water? Bera tried not to think about monsters. Serpents could swim. Were thousands down there, breeding, their twining bodies making the water thick? She willed the black glass to keep all dangers at bay.

  That’s not what it’s for.

  Panic seized her. Was Obsidian luring the serpents as a sign of their cult? She had lost the dog’s joy. Her legs were sinking and she gulped foul water, choked and kicked, trying to keep her head up. She carried on, until it happened again.

  You’ll drown, carrying so much weight.

  ‘I need to.’

  Let something go.

  It could only be her sword, with the powerful runes ALU engraved on it. She couldn’t.

  Think of Heggi – and Valdis.

  ‘I never stop.’

  No mother would die without a fight. The thought rang in her head. No mother… The sword had never been hers to keep; it belonged to a dead woman. Her mouth went underwater while she unbuckled her sword belt and let it go. Now, somehow, she had to reach the bank or her sacrifice would be in vain. Going under had reduced her fear, so she kept her face down and paddled hard. When she next took a breath the other side of the moat was close enough to see speedwells growing, which gave her a spurt. She was determined to reach them, and with a few hard strokes, she was there.

  The steep sides were daunting but Bera was able to push into the mud with her good leg and haul herself out on some savagely axed rowans. Rowans that protected from evil. Finally, exhausted, she flumped down at the top. Soaked, sickened, aching, her neck ricked by the heavy glass, she grinned with triumph. Then the loss of her sword hit her – but this was no time for grief. Besides, ALU was graven inside her and she was a Valla with Obsidian: unstoppable!

  You still have to reach the main gate.

  There was yelling from the moat. Had she been seen? Bera rushed to the iron-barred gate, which was unguarded. The man must have run or was fighting. The key was in the heavy lock on her side. Bera wanted to believe Hefnir had left it for her. She put her back to the rails and managed to open the gate wide enough to slip through and left it open so that the wolves would be free if they reached it.

  But then she faced the huge wooden door that it had taken three of them to open. How on earth would she do it alone? It was weighted her side with heavy stones to keep it shut, so she would be struggling with stone and wood.

  What are you doing?

  ‘Thinking.’

  Not well enough. What does it look like?

  The rocks were held in a net with blocks holding ropes to keep it in place.

  ‘Rigging.’

  It was the same notion as on a sail. Bera got out her boat-knife, kept sharp enough to cut even walrus-skin ropes. Her boat knowledge could see which was the load-bearing block and line, which was made from some sort of plant, so she easily sliced through it and the stone fell. Now she had to haul the door open. Marriage and motherhood had softened her but she was her father’s daughter and a childhood of boat-work had given her underlying toughness. She set her hands on the wood and pulled. It didn’t budge.

  ‘Come on!’ Bera banged her fist against the door.

  She tried again but her leg was too weak to dig in for purchase. Where could she draw extra strength? Perhaps it wasn’t safe to let the wolf in again but she was desperate to open her mind and let his fierce will flood into her bones and sinew.

  Will is not enough.

  She sank down, weeping. ‘What, then?’

  Call the strong to your back.

  Bera thought about those with strength who had helped her in the past, and was lifted by their courage. So she summoned the dead by name – Bjorn, Ottar, Thorvald – and pictured them taking up their positions behind her. Thorvald, the tallest and heaviest, was anchor. She tied a rope to the long wooden bar and threw it back. She planted her feet, got as steady as she could and then took the strain, the three others with her, in a ghostly tug-of-war.

  ‘Heave!’

  She had them at her back. They heaved as one and the door slowly opened. And then she was through and turned, wanting to look on the faces of those who had helped her.

  No one was there except her skern, who quickly pointed at her pocket. Bera put her hand in, wondering what he meant. A man, soaked and shivering, appeared at the open iron gate. He had a black knife in his hands and she would pay with her life for keeping her promise to the wolves. Then so be it. They would still be free.

  Hurry! It works like ALU.

  Bera’s fingers touched the smooth chalkiness of a shell. The runic egg. She took it out of her pocket, held it up for the warder to see, then laid it on the grass. She willed it to keep men out but kept her knife in her hand, ready to kill if that was what it took to get away.

  You can’t kill an armed man.

  ‘Then you’d better hope this does work.’

  Depends if he believes it does.

  The man got to the mark where the door had worn away the grass, then his eyes widened when he saw the egg and he stepped back. Two others came, teetered on the edge and stopped, their faces set in snarls of terror. What were the words in blood?

  She had to leave it there and get to the boat. Bera took the path to the jetty and started down the steps. How long had she been? She had no sense of what time of day it was: the light was the colour of vomit, with sea mists and smoke. Was the worst eruption about to begin? She was tired, wounded, clumsy, and she slipped. Her foot stopped against a piece of hacked stone.

  Lucky.

  She stood still for a moment to catch her breath. Her heart was beating strangely, as if a mouse were trapped in her ribcage. How much blood had she lost? She pressed on. There was no sign of any boat but once she reached the landing stage, a small skiff could be seen at the far end, hidden from above. Bera pulled a long line to get it alongside, fell aboard, pushed off and then struggled to get the oars in place. She was dizzy with tiredness. Obsidian hurt her neck, so she untied the shawl. The weight seemed heavier, or perhaps all the danger had made her unaware of it, as men said of their swords in battle. She lay it on the deck and began to row. It hurt to brace her leg
s, her stomach ached and she was slow.

  Before she reached the headland, she heard the wolves running. Their leader stood at the top of the cliff and gave a long, triumphant howl. Their minds met for an instant in mutual respect and then he turned to join his pack as they loped eastwards. Bera had given the wolves their freedom. Now she must keep them, and all creatures, alive.

  It depended how long Hefnir would, or could, wait.

  Bera had to ship the oars and rest. Blood was sticky on her hands from blisters and some unnoticed injury during her escape, and she was parched. Thirst was always worse than hunger. Surely Egill would have stowed some water aboard. Bera looked behind her and found a lidded pail. She dipped the bailer into it and tipped it down her throat. It was tainted by salt and yet she wanted to drain it dry.

  Careful – it’ll make you even more thirsty.

  There was no fast cure for the wolfbite but Bera wanted to tend it just the same. Her thick sea boots and leggings had stopped the worst, so she hoped the toothmarks would heal if there was no poison in them. She dipped the ladle over the side and poured salt water over them, yelping with the pain. She did it twice more, then put more salve on and bound it up with the Warden’s cloth. When she tried to put her sea boot back on, it was very tight. Her leg was swollen.

  Time to row again.

  The light was bruised by foulness in the upper air, cloaking the sun. Hel was yawning and the mountain’s blood-red mouth gaped wide in the distance. She hugged the headland, using the granite tower as a waymark. Egill had pointed south, where the Raven was anchored: the closest bay to Iraland, of course.

  ‘Is Hefnir taking me there?’

  Iraland? Could be. He’ll be taking Obsidian there as soon as he gets his hands on it.

  ‘He’ll want to advance himself there with a prize trading piece. That would be typical.’

  Or paying off a longstanding blood debt.

  ‘To the Serpent King? That would be a disaster! The Serpent must never look in it, or Hefnir. I hope he has no idea of its true nature.’