Muscular spasms shook the horses’ heads. Black, coagulated blood ran out of their eye sockets. Their rigid jaws stretched open, audibly cracking. The eye sockets were filled with clots of blood, making it seem as if new, black eyes had grown. The air was thin, as if Sæmundur was on top of a mountain. He had to draw his breath deeper and deeper in order to fill his lungs with air.
The left níðstöng screamed. The shriek cut through bone and marrow, stabbing into the frontal lobe like a cold needle. The horse’s head on the right twitched and emitted a long, anguished wail that caused a lump in Sæmundur’s throat, grabbed his heart like a freezing claw. The bloddy symbols he had drawn on them moved and became disfigured, connected into new forms that he had not seen in any manuscript. The head at the centre reached up and opened its mouth as wide as it could. It made a noise, so loud that Sæmundur felt the sound waves crashing upon him, shaking through his entire body. Yet he heard nothing. His heartbeat slowed down and soon enough he didn’t have to breathe in or out any more. There was nothing but the tone, the sounds he emitted. Now his own multitude of voices, Bektalpher and the horses’ heads, sounded as one.
He closed his eyes in order to better focus. He was somehow still able to see the níðstangir and the ritual circle, which was rapidly changing. But outside it everything was a haze, distant, meaningless. He reached back his head and saw that above him was an incision in the world, like an infected wound, and beyond it …
Nothing.
From the void stretched a shadow, reaching down to earth. The lower it went, the more material it became, until it ended up in an overpowering dark of night around Kölski. The silvery eyes stared at Sæmundur. The demon smiled when Sæmundur noticed that cords of shadow lay between himself and the imp.
He opened his eyes. The shadow was no longer there, but still he felt it. His vision had split, on the threshold between worlds as the night that he exorcised Kölski, his self about to be torn apart by the monumental force flowing through him. As if in a trance, he turned around and looked over Reykjavík. The city was insignificant, an empty shell for faded souls. The steel fortress dominated the sky, moving lethargically towards Perlan’s shining dome. High-tech engines powered by seiðmagn worked relentlessly to defy the laws of nature and keep the fortress afloat. Gigantic towers of heavy artillery were like rashes, the largest ones big enough to fire rounds the size of a carriage. Above the violent chaos of steel, chimneys spouted white-grey smoke.
The fortress drew ever closer, growing larger and larger. Thick cables hung out beneath it, like dangling entrails. When Loftkastalinn was right above Perlan, the cables would be connected to the thaumaturgical heart of the power plant and suck out of it enough power for around twenty-four hours’ worth of seiðmagn. An iron monstrosity that defied nature. One flying fortress was enough to break a siege, to wipe out an entire fleet. Loftkastalinn was only a prototype, an experiment. The next versions would have more economical engines, a more practical design. But despite its limited range the destructive power was enough to cause fear in the hearts of the neighbouring nations of the Kalmar Commonwealth.
The gateway stood wide open. The environment was saturated with sound, polluting it, transforming it. He felt his bones glowing with energy, as if they wanted to burn off their flesh until nothing remained but the shining skeleton. He took a deep breath, and with a single syllable he shattered the wall between reality and unbeing and directed the ravenous forces from beyond towards Loftkastalinn.
* * *
Garún tightened the strap on the mask and checked if air seeped in anywhere. The mask was so tight over her mouth and nose that her face hurt, but she didn’t mind. Anything was better than accidentally breathing in the thaumaturgical fumes. The effects were strong enough without making it worse.
She sat on a building rooftop and looked down at a vacant courtyard. The audioskull hung at her waist, the noisefiend emitting a calm beat. Rooftops were spread out like tussocks on a heath. Just out of sight was southern Hverfisgata. To the east she saw Loftkastalinn lazily moving towards Perlan, to Öskjuhlíð where Sæmundur should be preparing whatever arcane vileness was needed to raise a níðstöng. It hadn’t been easy to get here unseen from Elliðaárdalur, but the noisefiend made it doable.
The bullet had dried. The others didn’t know, but she’d been saving her last drops of delýsíð to coat her bullets. She wasn’t sure exactly what kind of effect it would have, but she thought it couldn’t hurt to try. Garún picked up a small paper square, rolled it up, and twisted one end closed. She dropped the round bullet in and poured the last measure of gunpowder behind it. The powder was loose, so she pressed it carefully with a small steel bit. She twisted the other end closed and tore off the extra paper with her teeth before packing the paper bullet case into her case, where the other nine shots were prepared and readied. The ammunition case was a wooden block cased in leather, with a strap so it could be carried over the shoulder. Nine holes had been drilled into it, just big enough to carry the paper ammunition.
She’d made good use of the delýsíð, now it was completely used up. Most of the last of it had gone into spraying cursed staves and symbols of destruction down by the alley leading out of the courtyard. Whoever came close to the clear delýsíð paintings would feel the repercussions. That was where the stiftamtmaður would escape when Sæmundur attacked Loftkastalinn. If Katrín’s intelligence was correct.
She wrapped the blue bone into the delýsíð-coated sheet and tied its ends together, making a kind of sack which she carried over her shoulder underneath her clothes. The hate-filled delýsíð merged with the forbidden power of the bone, so she felt a burning cold up against her chest. It felt good. Her last resort.
If there was a large-scale attack on the nation it would be the top priority of Lögrétta to get the stiftamtmaður from the parliament building to shelter. According to Katrín there was a single set of underground tunnels still standing from the house of Lögrétta. The others had either collapsed or were unusable. She’d heard about this because her father was a goði. At first the tunnels had been well maintained, but as the war had ended decades earlier the maintenance had become a liability and they had suffered years of neglect. The tunnels exited here, their intention being to safely head to the stiftamtmaður’s fortress in Viðey.
Although Katrín had no solid evidence for this, Garún had no choice but to trust her. This was their chance to hit the Crown so hard they couldn’t easily recover. It was either this, or spending their lives in hiding and waiting to one day get dragged to the Nine. She’d rather die here today.
She checked the two pistols were prepared: loaded with powder and bullets, both half-cocked and ready to fire. They were in bad shape, eroded by sulphuric acid residue left behind by old gunpowder. But they’d do the job, she hoped. The pistol grip was decorated with the king’s emblem, cast in silver. Garún smiled each time she saw it.
She gathered her things and swung down an open skylight. She landed softly in a hallway, where Katrín jumped and aimed her pistol before realising who it was.
“Fuck, Garún! Use the stairs, what are you thinking? I could have shot you!’
“Sorry. Don’t freak out.”
Katrín was even paler in the daylight now, after spending several days underground. She’d changed during their time down in the cavern. After getting through the detox she was like a different person. A hard and resilient determination took her over and she finally looked like the person who had written all those scathing articles. When they’d gone out to practise firing their weapons she’d quickly exceeded both Garún and Hraki. Only Styrhildur outmatched her. She was still nervous and suffering from withdrawal symptoms, but when it came to loading, aiming and firing she moved quickly and with certainty. Before, Garún had been unsure of her. Now she didn’t doubt that Katrín would pull the trigger without hesitation and bring death to the men who had ruined her family.
“Where are Styrhildur and Hraki?’ asked Garún.
/> “They’re downstairs, going over the weapons.”
“I’m going to check up on them. Keep an eye on Loftkastalinn and call us if you see something.”
The hallway was old but still unfinished. The cemented staircase was dusty and the walls coarse and bare. The windows and doors leading into the hallway had been bricked over. She heard a faint sound of conversation when she got to the bottom of the stairs. Hraki and Styrhildur. She stopped and listened. They kept going, seeming not to have heard her.
“… unsure about her.” A small voice, but determined. Hraki. The echo of the empty house made Styrhildur’s voice deeper and stronger.
“It has been a tough few days for … We can’t expect her to …’
Katrín? Or were they talking about her? “…
like a psychopath. Screaming in her sleep and then … Can’t trust her. Is she using …’
Garún had had enough – she wasn’t going to listen to more of this – and stomped down the stairs. Hraki instantly fell quiet as he heard her approach. Their pistols and knives were laid out on a table in front of them, alongside two fully prepared cases of ammunition.
“Garún. Hi. We were just going over everything. Just to be sure.” Styrhildur avoided looking straight at Garún, pointed out the weapons to her. “Are you set?’
“I’m good.” She picked up one of the knives. The steel was spotted with rust, but it would do. Like anything else. Had to do. She slid it into a sheath on her belt. “This is an unnecessary amount of ammunition, though. If it comes to it that we have to reload more than once, we are as good as dead.”
“Better safe than sorry,” said Hraki and attempted a smile. “It could come in handy later on.”
Garún nodded. She tried to remain calm and composed. They could have been talking about Katrín. Or herself. She knew that her sleep had been restless these last few days. It was the delýsíð sheet she wrapped around her body, every day. Infused with relentless rage. It kept her going, like oil to a fire. But it was also burning her out.
“I don’t know how much you heard,” said Styrhildur suddenly, “but I just wanted to—”
A shout from above stopped her.
“Now! It’s happening!’
Garún immediately sprinted up the stairs, the other two following closely behind her.
* * *
When lightning strikes it only lasts for a fraction of a second. One single moment where the destructive forces of nature break out in an almighty blaze. Mankind wasn’t intended to suffer more than this brief contact with uncontrollable energy. Most people couldn’t even handle that.
Sæmundur was like a lightning rod in a never-ending thunderstorm. An uncontrollable force flowed through him; his bones were aflame with power, burning him from the inside like glowing coals. There was no mercy to be found, no hope of a moment’s respite. The pain was unbearable. He was a man stretched on a rack, about to be torn apart. His mouth spouted incomprehensible sounds, merging with the damned wails that Bektalpher and the níðstangir emitted. A wind blew through the trees and carried with it the unearthly sound, making the dire beasts inhabiting the forest howl and shiver. The sky was oppressive, the heavy clouds grey with malice. About them moved flares and sparks in uncanny colours. The earth shook, like a dormant primordial þurs being awakened with a heart kindled with burning hatred.
A rift in reality formed near Loftkastalinn.
The naked eye could not properly detect what it was, but the mind sensed that something had been torn and given way. Dark, unwordly tendrils reached out towards the flying fortress, like inquisitive tentacles. Where they stroked the iron it deformed, never twice in the same way. It melted and burned, poured over the soldiers that ran around in disarray. Disfigured limbs grew out of it and tore people apart without hesitation. Where the tendrils touched humans they fell down dead, or they shook and trembled, their flesh mutating and their eyes glowing with a starless void. Every single bone in their body turned dark blue with demons. The possessed chanted galdur in a frantic tongue, both out of their own mouths and whatever monstrous maw or orifice that had formed on their body. From the bodies of the living, dead and possessed creatures burst out, some of them a chitinous black like Kölski, others unimaginable horrors that were not shaped by any laws of nature. Soldiers loaded their rifles and fired, reloaded, fired, sometimes so rapidly that the powder burst too soon in the barrel due to embers that still glowed there from the last shot. The barrage had no effect. The creatures were unstoppable. Sæmundur saw the sweat beading on their brow, heard their last words, smelled the gunpowder and blood. He saw, he heard, he felt – everything.
Air raid sirens sounded throughout the city. Beyond the rift something could almost be seen moving, something that was watching and waiting for a chance to fully break through. Loftkastalinn’s heavy artillery turned slowly and fired at the dark tendrils. The shots that hit their targets were instantly transformed, some becoming like molten lava or crimson lightning, others a demonic life form that fell to the city, bursting with toxic fumes or soaring into the air on twisted wings. Most of the rounds missed their mark and hit the city. Houses were blown apart by the barrage. Black columns of smoke rose throughout the city. A squadron of biplanes took off from the flying fortress, trying to fight the forces from beyond with impotent machine guns. The biplanes crashed or exploded in the air, or turned into something very, very different: living chimera of flesh, machine and violence that dived down to the city or attacked the soldiers still fighting on the fortress. Loftkastalinn had been heading towards Perlan when Sæmundur started the ritual, but now it wandered aimlessly over the city.
Sæmundur’s voice was raw, rattling on like a broken engine. It was only a matter of time until he lost his voice. His throat was raw and shredded, every lungful of air like breathing in soot. He just about managed to maintain control of the rift and hold back the forces that were trying to break through. Only a fraction of a controlled flow of energy was intended to break through. Wetness streamed down his face and he tasted iron. He realised that he was bleeding, from his eyes, nose and ears. Blisters formed and burst on his flesh, but it was nothing compared to the pressure on his mind to keep control of the rift.
Loftkastalinn had started to slowly sag, tilting like a sinking ship. Fires burned and the turbines had stopped. Iron moaned and cracked. One of the chimneys collapsed and fell to the earth. An explosion flared up and the fortress tilted even further. The tendrils from beyond had become more solid, despite having no colour or a set form, a blank void in the world’s image. Somewhere deep in the recesses of Sæmundur’s mind he recalled Garún pouring turpentine over a painting. How the colours had eroded, vanished, as if they had never existed.
He was at his limit. The fire that roared inside him and used him as fuel was devouring him completely. If he didn’t stop then little else besides ash would remain, if he was fortunate. When you deal with demons there are many things worse than death. It had gone far enough – way too far. Loftkastalinn was dangerously close to crashing. The city would be completely ruined and that was not a part of his plans. There were limits to what Sæmundur could place on his conscience.
In a regular galdur, the kvaðning was a short and simple part of the incantation. The preparation was what mattered the most, and with a strong foundation ending the spell should be easy enough. But now he wasn’t sure how to start. Alongside him rapidly chanted voices that were his own, but still not. Demons manifested into flesh, unruly marionettes. He turned towards the níðstangir.
The red meat shone, almost writhing. Grey ooze dripped off the heads, puddles of ichor on the earth beneath them. The skin had been burned off them, melted. They chanted relentlessly over each other, and he saw that their tongues had split or multiplied. The air simmered with galdur and he felt the same intoxicating power radiate from himself. He started the kvaðning. Minute changes that slowly piled up, changes in rhythm and key. Normally, firmly established incantations and words of power would be rec
ited, but he was far beyond them.
The struggle was like making a river flow upstream. The galdur resisted, refused to move back towards its source. Sæmundur’s bones burned with pain. His teeth vibrated in his skull, which sounded rhythmically in his head like a cathedral bell. He was about to give in, to stop, but he started to feel how slowly the galdur was turning around with great resilience. In his mind he saw the demonic tendrils fading around Loftkastalinn, how reality seemed to start rearranging itself like a stitched wound.
No …
White. Pain.
He felt his body drop and fall limply to the ground. He felt his lips move, his lungs breathe in air, but he heard nothing except a constant, flat tone. When he tried to stop, tried to no longer feed the galdur, his body would not obey. The area over his chest, where Bektalpher regurgitated vile noises, impaled him like a spear.
No.
His vision slowly became clearer. He stood up, but it wasn’t him doing it. His voice, Bektalpher’s and the níðstangir were joined together in one ceaseless and revolting tone. Against his will he turned back around towards Loftkastalinn.
He saw. He saw beyond the gate, beyond the membrane that separated that which was and that which was not. He stared down into the unrecognisable, endless abyss that awaited beyond. He stared like a blind man staring into the sun, into the bright, burning core of the deep. He fell, lost himself in the void. It drained him and flowed back into his veins.
Þrjátíu og eitt
The door flew open and two soldiers rushed out. Garún leaned away from the broken window but still tried to keep them in sight. Katrín was near her, guns readied and loaded. Styrhildur and Hraki waited at the other side of the courtyard. After the soldiers came a man dressed in a suit. She couldn’t catch a glimpse of his face, but it had to be him.
Count Trampe.
Garún drew a deep breath through the gas mask. The soldiers were almost at the end of the courtyard, where clear delýsíð patterns covered the earth and up the walls. Only a few more steps, and the seiður would be unleashed.
Shadows of the Short Days Page 36