The train came to a halt at Gufunes and Sæmundur got out. Police officers were standing watch inside the station, but didn’t spare him a second glance. To them he was just another hobo, and as long as he got out of there they didn’t want to turn him into their problem. The station was crowded with workers from the harbour or the factories. Sæmundur limped against the flow of workers heading home, getting out without trouble.
The city walls had three main gates: Grafarhlið to the east, Rauðavatnshlið to the south-east and the main gate to the south, simply called Suðurhlið. Officially those were the only ways in and out of the city – at least they were the only roads leading in or out. But dotted around the walls were smaller gates, not intended for heavy traffic, mostly used by the Crown or the authorities. One such entrance was at the north side of the wall in Gufunes. Sæmundur had a clear view of the exit straight down an empty street. The large, heavy iron doors were broad enough for a horse, but too small for a carriage. Two soldiers stood watch. There were no seiðskrattar nearby and neither of them seemed to have thaumaturgical googles, as far as Sæmundur could see. Behind them towered the city wall. Soldiers marched back and forth on top of its battlements, their helmets shining in the sunlight. The outer side of the wall was mounted with iron-grey cannons, like spears set against whatever threat the cursed nature could send their way.
Usually Sæmundur would have strolled up to the guards, calm as you can be, stealthily palming them a small bundle of bills without any suspicion. These types of men were not above accepting bribes – especially if they were guarding the gate leading to Hræfuglaey. But Sæmundur was filthy and bloody, and – what was worse – broke. The guards would perhaps let a hobo through, but only if he could pay them. He couldn’t make himself literally invisible, and getting through with force could have some unfortunate consequences later on. He wanted to do this without any trouble. He considered if he could weave an illusion to appear like a ranking officer, but decided against it. Too complicated, too risky. Not every problem was a nail to be hammered down with galdur. He needed a natural, effortless solution.
He monitored them, contemplating his next step. What was it like to guard the way to the most powerful tribe of náskárar in the greater Reykjavík region? Whose scorn incited greater fear – the Crown or Those-who-pluck-the-eyes-of-the-ram? Sæmundur stumbled away from the gate, into the nearby industrial area.
Tall chimneys stood black and still like ancient obelisks. Steelworks, quarries, repair shops for decrepit train wagons. Small rusted fishing boats slowly weathered down to ruins on an open gravel field, everything useful reclaimed from the wrecks a long time before. Nearby were a few restaurants, clustered close together. Messy workers’ fare, soured and smoked meats served in dining halls lined with grimy tables where people sat, snuffing tobacco and drinking oily, tarcoloured coffee. Sæmundur went behind one of the diners, to the alleyway where they took out the trash. A gust of blue-black wings swirled up at his arrival as ravens jumped up from open trash containers and rolled-over bins, which they had cleverly pushed over and opened. They sat up on the eaves and stared at him sideways and down their long beaks, so similar to their cousins that Sæmundur was made uncomfortable.
He rooted around in the open container until he found what he was looking for. Svið. The singed sheep’s head was dried and half-eaten, likely around a week old. He shut the lid on the container and placed the leftovers on top of it. Then he waited.
* * *
A short while later Sæmundur walked up to the gate where the two soldiers stood guard. They saw him coming, but didn’t show any reaction.
Good so far, Sæmundur thought to himself.
“Halt,” one of them said in a thick continental accent when Sæmundur was close enough. “This gate is closed to general traffic.”
“My apologies, my lord, my apologies.” Sæmundur bowed reverently and repeatedly, making himself as low as he possibly could in front of these great lords in their polished armour, each wielding a skorrifle. “I do not mean to interrupt, but …’ He hesitated, glancing behind him, as if he was afraid of being followed. “I have an important message. Very important.”
“Get lost!’ the soldier spat.
The other one tightened his grip on his rifle. They wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him and no one would mind. It was fully within their rights.
“No, my lord, I beg your forgiveness, I am sorry, please, I am only a messenger.”
“What do you mean?’
Sæmundur hesitated again. The soldier lost his patience.
“What the fuck do you mean, man? Spit it out!’
At that moment Sæmundur pulled out the carcass he had been hiding under his coat. The raven’s feathers were shredded, its eye sockets empty and its intestines hanging out.
“I have a message, my lord. I am but a messenger. A message to Those-who-pluck-the-eyes-of-the-ram, from Bare-bones-in-an-empty-ravine.”
The soldiers exchanged an uneasy glance. A tribal feud was a bloody and ruthless matter. Those-who-pluck-the-eyes-ofthe-ram and Bare-bones-in-an-empty-ravine were two
