Blood of the Isir Omnibus

by Erik Henry Vick

  “Not to mention stubbornness.”

  Althyof’s shoulders hitched up and down. “True.”

  “Okay, now I have to ask the obvious question.”

  Althyof waved his hand as if inviting me into his home.

  “This seems like a lot of effort to go through to accomplish what the Isir do by…how did you put it…muttering words in an ancient language and imagining what they want to happen.”

  Althyof laughed, a great belly-shaking laugh. “And how many dragons have you seen bound by Isir? How many Isir fly those bound dragons?”

  “A fair point,” I said.

  “And how many have made you things as powerful as the ring your lovely wife wears? How many Isir offered to bind her to your fate? How many offered to make her an Isir?”

  “Wait a second…you made her into an Isir? With the ring’s enchantment?”

  Althyof rolled his shoulders in a kind of shrug. “As good as. Well? Tell me which of the Isir offered to do the same.”

  “Well, no one.”

  “And why?”

  “I never thought about it.”

  “The reason is that it is beyond what is possible by vefnathur strenki—by saytr. I am not boasting, Hank. You have seen me in battle, singing a trowba, stepping the dance, and stayba runana, all while fighting, planning, defending myself, yes?”

  I nodded, remembering the way he’d dispatched the white dragon at Veethar’s estate.

  “By comparison, what would it take to accomplish the same using the Gamla Toonkumowl?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It is like comparing cooking one dish at a time over a single flame versus having separate heat sources for each pot—like the difference between one horse pulling a sledge to clear trees versus a caravan’s worth of horses and men working to clear the same snarl of downed trees.”

  “Serial versus parallel.”

  “What?”

  “Doing things one after another versus doing a bunch of things at the same time.”

  “Yes. The trowba has power, the dance also, and the runes most of all.”

  “Would it be possible to also vefa strenki while singing, dancing, and casting the runes?”

  “I’ve never heard of it being tried, which is not to say it hasn’t been. More?”

  “No. Honestly, I don’t know enough about what you do to know what I need to know.”

  “Based on that sentence alone, Hank, you should do well.” He chuckled. “Okay, on to the basics. The first thing you need to know is that the sung or chanted part, that is the trowba, the triblinkr, or the lausaveesa, must be constructed a certain way. Each starts with the identification of the runeskowld. For example, each lausaveesa I chant begins with the phrase ‘Yek air Althyof hoospownti runeskowld’ which identifies me. You would say ‘Yek air Hank neelithi runeskowld’ which means ‘I am Hank novice runeskowld.’ Try it.”

  “Yek air Hank neelithi runeskowld. And yours identifies you as a master runeskowld?”

  “Good. And you are correct, hoospownti runeskowld means master runeskowld. And while we sing or chant this line, it is important to cast a particular rune. This rune has various meanings, but in this context, it is a dedication, an introduction of sorts. This is the rune.” Althyof chanted a short lausaveesa and lifted his hand. He drew in the air, and the rune appeared, glowing the same cadmium red that his daggers did when he fought. The rune looked like a diamond. “This rune is Ingwaz, and it simply means ‘this is the beginning.’ Do you understand?”

  “Yes, chant my introduction and cast Ingwaz. Doesn’t seem too hard.”

  Althyof scoffed. “Well, I would expect saying your name would be easy. The next phrase varies, depending on which effect you want. You would use Mannaz if you wanted an augmenting or supporting kaltrar.” He drew in the air again, and the figure that emerged looked like two vertical lines connected at the top by a sideways X.

  “What’s a kaltrar?” I asked.

  “It means ‘spell’ or ‘incantation.’ If you meant to do harm with your kaltrar, you would use Laguz or perhaps Hagalaz. This is Laguz,” he said, drawing what looked like an arrow pointed upward, except the left-hand part of the tip was missing. “And this is Hagalaz.” He drew two vertical lines in the air and connected them with a crossbar that slanted downward from left to right. It looked a little like a capital H, but for the slanted crossbar. “If you mean to do something for another, you would use Gebo, which means ‘gift.’” He drew a capital X in the air. Do you understand?”

  “I do,” I said. “Are there only three possible runes for the second line?”

  “For now,” said Althyof with an air of mystery. “The simplest lausaveesa are only three lines long.” He ticked off points on his finger. “Ingwaz, the defining rune—Mannaz, Laguz, Hagalaz, or Gebo—followed by a representation of what you want to happen, and finally, the closing rune, which is Sowilo, or ‘success.’” He drew in the air again, this time drawing an S that looked like a childish lightning bolt.

  “There’s got to be more to it than that.”

  “Well, of course there is. Those are the runes you cast while incanting. The challenge comes from making each line start with the rune.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ingwaz is equivalent to the letter I; Mannaz, M; Sowilo, S.” He raised his eyebrows.

  “I see. I am Hank novice runeskowld. Make me strong. Songs are cool.”

  Althyof nodded but frowned. “It is not a matter for joking, though, Hank. When you learned to vefa strenki, I assume you mispronounced words, or failed to focus your thoughts?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “And what happened?”

  “Nothing. You must have what you want foremost in your mind like you do with the runes, I guess, and if—‍”

  “Never make the mistake of assuming vefnathur strenki approaches the complexity of a kaltrar. When you incant as a runeskowld, if you fail, there is a backlash of energy. It may strike you; it may strike those around you.”

  “Ah,” I said. “That sounds dangerous.”

  “It is, Hank, and I want to impress this on you. I never want you to practice the art when I am not with you. I will tell you when you’ve earned sufficient skill to chant simple lausaveesa on your own, and until I do, pretend you don’t know how unless I am by your side.”

  “Okay,” I said, trying to sound steady and brave, but with an icy knot of fear in my belly.

  He squinted at me. “I see I’ve planted a seed of fear. That is good, Hank. Never let complacency grow there instead. Even I could break a kaltrar and suffer for it.”

  I nodded.

  “Good. Now, let me teach you your first lausaveesa. How would it begin?”

  “Yek air Hank neelithi runeskowld.”

  “And which rune?”

  I flashed him a crooked smile. “Ingwaz.” I drew it in the air, but no fancy cadmium red rune glowed there afterward.

  “Good. The kaltrar is one of support, so what rune must we use?”

  “Mannaz.” Again, I drew the rune, and again he nodded.

  “If you were fluent, you could create a sentence for yourself, and one day, you will. For today, you will speak what I say.”

  “Does that mean, you can compose a kaltrar on the fly? You could make it up as you go?”

  Althyof nodded. “I can, yes. You cannot. Not until I say.” He bathed me with a grave stare.

  I nodded.

  “Good. The sentence I want you to memorize is: ‘Mathur ayns ok yek thyowst.’ Repeat it.”

  “Mathur ayns ok yek thyowst.”

  “Yes. The next line requires you learn the rune Eiwhaz. It looks like this.” He drew in the air, making a vertical line. At the top, he made a slanted line that hung off the right side of the line like the overhang of a house. At the bottom of the line, he made a line that slanted upward and to the left. “Do you have it?”

  “Eiwhaz. Yes, I think so.”

  “No. You have it, or you do not. Th
ere is no ‘think so.’ Not in this.”

  “Okay, Yoda,” I said with half a smile on my lips. Of course, Althyof didn’t know what I was talking about. “Never mind, I understand. I have it.”

  “The line is: ‘Iya tyefthu myer frith.’ Say it.”

  “Iya tyefthu myer frith.”

  “Draw Eiwhaz.” I drew it in the air, and he nodded. “The last line comes with what rune?”

  I fought the urge to sigh. I understood the danger, but it seemed pedantic to quiz me over and over. “Sowilo.” I drew it.

  He ducked his chin. “Last line. Sintaplowth thehta puhlvun ok truchkma thath.”

  I blew out a breath. “That’s a doozy. Sintaplowth theta puhlvun ok truckma thath?”

  “Almost. Thehta.” He gestured at me.

  “Thehta.”

  He nodded. “And truchkma.”

  “Truchkma. Sintaplowth thehta puhlvun ok truchkma thath.”

  “Yes, you have it now. Hank, this is a weak kaltrar, but even so, if it backfires, it will hurt.”

  I shrugged. “Althyof, if there’s anything in this universe I’m used to, it’s pain.”

  He squinted at me a moment and pointed to my saddlebags where Keri and Fretyi dozed, lulled by the conversation and the gentle, rocking pace of Slaypnir’s walk. “Oh, I forgot them.”

  “I know, and you must never forget the danger to those around you. Pass them to one of the Alfar.”

  I nodded and waved Yowtgayrr forward. He came alongside, and I lifted the saddle bag and passed it to him. Keri squirmed, but his little eyes stayed closed. Yowtgayrr nodded and fell back.

  “Tell me the runes, in order,” demanded Althyof.

  “Ingwaz, Mannaz, Eiwhaz, Sowilo.”

  “Good. To stayba runana, you must concentrate on the shape of the rune, draw it in your mind’s eye. Don’t force it to be any color just let it be whatever it wants to be.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Okay, I want you to chant the first line, while you cast Ingwaz. Go no farther. I will observe.” He reined his horse to the other side of the road and waved at me with no little impatience.

  I tried it, and a vague tickling of something flowed around me. Slaypnir snorted and flicked his ears back.

  “Good,” called Althyof. “Try the whole thing.”

  I took a deep breath and steeled myself against the possibility of pain. I recalled the shape of each rune, in the order they would fall during the incantation. After another deep, steadying breath, I spoke the words, casting the runes with the start of each phrase.

  When I finished, nothing happened. I glanced at Althyof, tensing against the pain that might wash back on me. Althyof smiled. “How do you feel?” he asked, stepping his horse across the road to ride by my side again. “Physically, I mean.”

  That’s when it hit me. “I feel fine! I mean, there aren’t any of the aches and pains that exist even with the cloak. It’s like… Is the curse gone?”

  Althyof’s smile faded a little. “It isn’t gone, not for good. In fact, it will come back far too soon, I expect. I said this is the weakest kaltrar I can think of that has any meaning for you.”

  “But still! Does this mean I can lift the Black Bitch’s curse?”

  Althyof shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Curses don’t work that way, and unfortunately, the Dragon Queen is not limited to mere vefnathur strenki. She was never taught, not by any Tverkar anyway, but she can do something that approaches lausaveesa. Her power is unschooled, untutored, but it’s also indisputable.” He shook his head again, avoiding my gaze. “I’m sorry, Hank, but the only way to lift the curse is to convince her to lift it.”

  Disappointment swept through me, but I wasn’t surprised. Meuhlnir had told me almost the same thing. And, truth be told, I was…used to it was the wrong phrase, maybe resigned to it captured the way I felt. I tried for a smile and landed on something more akin to a drunken leer. “Ah well, easy come, easy go.”

  “The pain is back already?” Althyof asked.

  “No, it’s an expression. It means nothing easy to do is worth much in the long run.”

  “Ah.” He nodded and looked ahead. “I want you to monitor yourself, Hank. When you first begin to experience the effects of the curse, tell me.”

  “Will I be able to use the lausaveesa again? When the pain comes back?”

  “Yes, you could. I wouldn’t advise it on your first day, nor will I allow it. You must build your skills slowly.”

  I thought of the years I’d spent building my physical strength—all the hours in the gym, all the slow progression from one weight to a little more weight, from ten reps to twelve. It made sense. “I get it.”

  “You won’t argue? You won’t try anyway?” Althyof stared at me with assessing eyes.

  “No, I won’t. I’m old enough to recognize my own foolhardy impulses.”

  Althyof smiled crookedly and waggled his eyebrows. “Me, too. Mostly.”

  “Mostly,” I echoed, smiling back at him. “So how do I make the lausaveesa stronger? More runes?”

  “That’s part of the eloquence of the Art. Let me simplify the runes a moment. Let’s call Ingwaz, I; Mannaz, M; and so on. The lausaveesa you learned a moment ago takes the form I-M-E-S. To increase the strength of any lausaveesa, you can add runes as you suggested, or you can repeat the runes. For example, we could construct a kaltrar that took the form I-M-E-E-E-S, and it would be stronger. Or I-M-M-E-E-S. Understand?”

  “Yeah. Can I repeat the same phrase three times, too?”

  “No.” He smiled a crooked smile. “That was imprecise of me. You can, but there are diminishing returns with the phrases. If you repeat the Eiwhaz phrase three times, it will be only a small amount stronger. If you use unique phrases, it will be somewhere between two and three times stronger.”

  “Oh. I guess I need to accelerate my acquisition of the Gamla Toonkumowl.”

  Althyof nodded, but there was a glint in his eye that made it seem what I’d said had amused him. “What?”

  “Er? Nothing, nothing.” He glanced away.

  “What’s next? Something to protect myself or my son?”

  “No, not yet, Hank. We can’t rush this.”

  “Right. I keep forgetting that. My nature urges me to race ahead, to learn as much as I can, as quickly as I can.”

  “Laudable, but likely to result in your death when it comes to the Art.” Althyof sank his chin into his beard and seemed pensive. “This Kuhntul business…”

  “Yes?”

  “Why does she come to you? From what I overheard last night, I take it she has some prophetic, yet incomprehensible warning?”

  I smiled crookedly. “That’s the best description I’ve heard to date. She warns me that there is a betrayer amongst us.”

  “A betrayer.” Althyof scratched a bushy eyebrow. “Of course, you suspect me.”

  “No, not at all. I suspect Kuhntul if you want to know the truth.”

  “But the others, they suspect me.”

  I shrugged. “You’d have to ask them.”

  “I don’t need to ask. Of course they suspect me. I’m a Tverkr.”

  “And so they should suspect you? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “No. But they will. They always suspect Tverkar, despite the betrayals by their own people. They glibly accept Freya into their midst, despite what she did in the war, but me? No, I’m suspect, despite what I did in the war. It has always been thus, starting with the Alfar, who assumed we took after the Svartalfar more than their fair-skinned race. The Tverkar have a certain reputation—unearned, I might add—for being mercenary, for selling ourselves to the highest bidder. Even the lofty Meuhlnir considers this a fact.”

  I remembered the bargaining Althyof had done in Prokkr’s workshop and cocked my head to the side. “It seems you encourage this belief,” I said, keeping my tone neutral, mild.

  “Yes, and why not? Why not act the way people expect? Why not play the role?”

  “Because it d
oes nothing but reinforce the beliefs?”

  “You’re young, Hank. I sometimes forget that you’ve lived only a few decades.” He shook his head. “Beliefs like this…they do not change.”

  One thing I learned as a cop: when someone comes out with a statement such as that, there’s no point going on with the conversation. “What did she do?”

  “Eh? Oh, Freya?”

  “Yes. Meuhlnir and Veethar are tight-lipped on the subject.”

  “Yes, I bet they are.” He rode for a while, swaying with the gait of his horse, stroking his beard and squinting at those ahead of us. “It was late in the war. Causalities on both sides were…horrible. The rebellious Isir had mustered allies from many a klith, many a stathur, and the Dark Queen had done the same. As the number of combatants swelled, so did the level of violence. While the Isir were…reluctant…to unleash the full brunt of their powers on their kinsmen and friends, they had no such compunction about blasting Svartalfar or Tverkar.”

  “I don’t imagine the Tverkar felt bad about killing Svartalfar, either.”

  “Indeed not. We unleashed such power—and by we, I mean all the combatants in the war—that the universe shook with it. It seemed hopeless at first—one side would win a battle by decimating the enemy, then the other side would win the next battle by doing the same. It was almost as if we traded fortresses back and forth, the leadership of both sides seemingly wanting to avoid the leadership of the other. But slowly, the tide turned. The allies the Black Bitch had summoned were inconstant, and when things got to be too much for them, they slunk off into the darkness and disappeared home. Soon the rebels outnumbered the loyalists at every battle, and we stopped trading victories. Meuhlnir came up with a plan…”

  Seventeen

  “I have a plan!” Meuhlnir, shouting so that everyone in the large hall in the fortress at Raytyanes could hear him, climbed up on a table. “I have a plan to end the war!”

  “Oh, ho! Meuhlnir has another plan to end the war,” heckled a Tverkr with mossy-green hair standing a few dozen steps from Althyof.

  “I deserve that,” said Meuhlnir. “It’s true my last plan to end the war was a disaster. I admit—‍”

  “And the three before that!” shouted the Tverkr. The knot of Tverkar he stood with laughed, and blood suffused Meuhlnir’s cheeks.