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
