“Forward,” the iron beak crowed behind him.
Sæmundur didn’t wait to be pushed a second time and walked out onto the bridge.
The bridge was in absolute disrepair, looking even worse than the rope ladder. He focused on not looking down, but then he did and the vertigo hit him so hard he almost lost his balance.
“The flesh is weak,” he mumbled to himself. “The spirit is willing though the flesh is weak.”
The wind rushed around him as náskárar flew over and under him, shouting and cawing. Posturing or curious at the sight of the stranger, or perhaps only passing by, indifferent to his being there. The fear of heights was unfamiliar to them.
This island was much older than the other one. Its cavern walls were rougher and the hrafnaspark covering it was more weathered. The faded carvings were like ripples on water. He was surrounded by the language of the náskárar and the feeling filled him with dread. Nobody better knows the power of language than a galdramaður.
They entered a hall, the ceiling shrouded with darkness. Sæmundur was beset by náskárar on each side. They were hanging from the cavern walls, filling up the alcoves that lined each side. They sat in nests made from shining metals, coloured glass and corrugated plates of iron, or stood like statues on their krummafótur, the claws on the other legs free to carve bone, sharpen tools, pick meat off bones. A menacing chatter erupted as he entered and every náskári turned to get a look at him. This was where the greatest warriors of the tribe resided. One such blóðgagl had an iron beak covered with long, sharp nails, another had a sawtoothed horn at the end of his beak. Every single náskári was heavily decorated with jewellery and bones. Sæmundur tried to spot the difference between male and female corvians, but could not see it. In the middle of the cavern was a roaring fire. The floor was covered with junk and carcasses picked clean. Cows, sheep and other things Sæmundur did not want to look too closely at. He and his guards headed straight to Rotsvelgur’s throne at the end of the hall, where he waited alongside his closest court members and councillors.
Rotsvelgur loomed over the other náskárar, who all but cowered in his presence. The helskurn and infused beak and talons already made him look like a living weapon, coupled with the morbid trophies he displayed on his hertygi. As Sæmundur approached the hersir he felt the emanations of the galdur loaded in Rotsvelgur’s armour radiate off him, a sickening wave of fear and awe.
Rotsvelgur’s closest council was comprised of aged warriors, covered with scars and laden with symbols of victory, some of the oldest members with spots of rust in their iron. All of them were blóðgögl, except one, the náskári sitting closest to Rotsvelgur. The tribe’s skrumnir was barely taller than Sæmundur, dressed in dark grey cloth, making him seem like a spectre or a monstrous creature out of legend.
Sæmundur halted at a respectable distance from Rotsvelgur. The hersir stood up when he saw who had arrived. The throne, if it could be called so, was a great nest made from scrap iron, fused together in the unique náskárar method. The iron beak who had escorted Sæmundur announced his arrival in skramsl and the chatter increased. Rotsvelgur let loose a single caw and the noise died out instantly.
“Sæmundrr,” Rotsvelgur said in rough Hrímlandic, “arr þérr arriv’d to pay the skuld?’
“Hail and well met, Rotsvelgur. I received your message and have come to offer you a settlement. For my hand and for the hand of Katrín Melsteð, the debtor of Hræeygður.”
For a while the only sound came from the sparking of the fire.
“Skuld arr great,” Rotsvelgur said eventually. “Higher after … faulty smithing þérr ha’t work’d.”
He especially enunciated those two words, glaring maliciously at Sæmundur. Something had gone wrong with the galdur he’d performed – or Rotsvelgur was bluffing. He was wearing the armour, so it had to be working in some regard. Sæmundur was not about to get hustled into even deeper debt.
“The skuld of other …’
He nodded to a náskári hanging from the wall. A young, ironed blóðgagl. That must be Hræeygður. He crowed some kind of amount in skramsl. Sæmundur didn’t quite catch it, but it sounded like a high number. Rotsvelgur feigned surprise at the amount of the debt.
“Arr-at small. But – þérr shall’t settle?’
“Yes,” said Sæmundur, keeping his manner calm and natural. “I have come on behalf of the people you have stood with against the Crown in the last two protests. The people who died with you on Austurvöllur, rising up against Kalmar.”
At this there was an eruption of noise around him, as outrage moved the náskárar. He must tread carefully. He had no idea of the political machinations which had led to the Ram Eaters showing up at the protests, nor of how he should speak of those who had died in them.
“For too long Kalmar has oppressed us. We intend to strike back.”
Rotsvelgur started strutting back and forth in front of Sæmundur, his claws hitting the nest of scrap iron.
“Ok hvat use shall’t ek ha’t of such weaklings? Reykjavík belong’t to Krxgraak’úrrtek!’
At this the náskárar roared, crowing and shouting and slamming their talons against the rock.
“It is true that Those-who-pluck-the-eyes-of-the-ram are the most powerful tribe,” said Sæmundur, once they had settled down. “Those-who-pluck-the-eyes-of-the-ram justly call the city of Reykjavík their territory. But one soars above every náskári. Kalmar now rules the skies, which once were your sole dominion! With Loftkastalinn and their biplanes!’
The
