“Go on,” the soldier hissed.
Sæmundur limped towards them. They opened the iron doors just wide enough for him to get through, and as soon as he did they locked it behind him.
The fresh ocean breeze greeted Sæmundur on the other side of the wall. He breathed easier. Nature lay spread out before him, sea and snowy mountains, great and barren and immortal. To think that all of this ruthless, overwhelming nature was locked out of sight behind the walls, so people could forget that something greater and infinitely more powerful than them lurked at their threshold.
An overgrown path went down from the wall to the beach, where a thin stretch of land made of sand reached out towards the island of Hræfuglaey. The Crown had made a land bridge to it shortly after completing the wall, much to the chagrin of the náskárar. A black cloud of náskárar swarmed around the sheer cliffs of the island. He could hear the faint noise of their crowing and cawing, crude and ancient sounds.
Sæmundur tossed the raven’s carcass as soon as he gained a proper amount of distance from the wall. A dead raven was one of the greatest insults there was, doubly so if mutilated, and if Bare-bones-in-an-empty-ravine had really sent Those-who-pluck-the-eyes-of-the-ram a dead raven, all hell would break loose in Reykjavík. The tribes regularly fought among themselves, but it was more tradition than real conflict. A mutilated and ravaged raven’s carcass was a grave insult and equal to a declaration of war, having different meanings depending on what was done to the raven itself. Sæmundur had no idea what an eyeless raven with its intestines hanging out meant, but whatever it was it could not be anything good. He knew as much, as did the soldiers at the gate.
Two great shadows circled above him. He saw no glint of iron at this distance, but he was certain that they were blóðgögl. He kept on walking, not hesitating, trying not to consider if they’d notice that his shadow didn’t fall according to the sunlight. Thankfully it was fairly overcast, but still the sun hung low in the sky at this time of year.
He looked up. The shadows were larger now, lower in the sky. He walked on to the beach. Black seaweed cracked under his feet, dried out from the sun and the frost. The waves fell in a droning murmur. The ocean was calm, unusual for Hrímland. Náskáraey loomed ahead of him. It wasn’t a proper island, more like a cluster of cliffs jutting out of the ocean, close to each other. The rocks were sheer, so thin and tall that one could hardly deem them to be islands. But the cliffs had always been named as a single place, one of the oldest homes of náskárar in Hrímland. Their capital, so to speak.
The earth shook as two náskárar landed right in front of him, laden with iron. Blóðgögl, as he justly suspected. They were considerably taller than him, despite stooping. One of them could barely keep his head aloft due to the sharp lump of iron that was fused to the upper side of his beak. The iron was dark, coarse and uneven, like lava that had only recently hardened.
“Away,” one of them cawed.
The náskárar strutted back and forth on the rocky beach, each step screeching from their iron talons. Their walk was uneven, mostly supporting themselves on the krummafótur, which was much larger than the other two legs, its claw big enough to carry grown sheep or men aloft.
“No humans. Away.”
Sæmundur raised his hands and showed that he was no threat. He wondered how different náskárar were from humans – if they could hear the demon fused in his flesh, whispering. It was too late to worry about that now. He felt Bektalpher’s sensitive and bloated lips move, ceaselessly chanting the incantations that held Kölski back.
“I am Sæmundur. Rotsvelgur sent for me. This is regarding my debt to him.”
The one that had spoken regarded him inquisitively. As if he was considering if it was worth the trouble to devour this little vermin or not. Sæmundur stared down the long beak, not buckling under the heavy and crushing stare.
“He left me a rat king,” Sæmundur added.
The náskári tilted its head, turning to the one which was heavily ironed on his beak, spitting out a question in skramsl that Sæmundur didn’t quite catch. The iron beak replied that Rotsvelgur would want to meet this one, in what Sæmundur felt was like a harsh tone. He was too unfamiliar with the náskárar tongue. If he didn’t focus completely every caw sounded like an ugly, warped sound that couldn’t possibly have some sort of meaning behind it.
The iron beak turned to Sæmundur and spoke in a voice so rough it could hardly be deciphered as Hrímlandic.
“Go. You will pay.” This was not a question.
“I’m here to settle my debt, yes.”
The iron beak took a threatening step towards him, ruffling his wings.
“You – pay.”
He took flight with a powerful beat of his wings. The other one followed, but not after also giving Sæmundur a threatening stare.
Sæmundur sighed and kept walking towards the island. He had never been to Hræfuglaey before; usually he met Rotsvelgur in Reykjavík. As he came closer he noticed sun-faded ropes hanging down the length of the cliff. Next to the ropes dangled a tattered rope ladder that went all the way to the top. The wooden steps were badly made and looked as if they would break under the smallest strain. Clearly the náskárar didn’t care if their ground-dwelling visitors made it up or fell down to their deaths. Sæmundur was certain that they would have
