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 recited, 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.
Another pair of soldiers followed behind Trampe. Garún gripped the the pistol, ready to aim and fire. Her heart pounded rapidly in her chest, but not from fear. From hatred. From many weeks of accumulated rage, tormenting her awake and asleep. Something else exited the tunnels behind the soldiers. Something they hadn’t accounted for. A dreadfully familiar sight that sent her heart sinking to her stomach.
The seiðskratti was dressed in a heavy and unshapely robe. They were covered in dark red symbols from head to toe, causing the mind to reel and become disoriented, drawing power as roots absorb water. The black
