“Garún. Can I talk to you for a second?’
She jumped and turned around to see Katrín, who had sneaked up on her. Her arm was resting in a makeshift sling.
“What the fuck was that?’ said Katrín quietly.
“What?’
“Artillery fire on Reykjavík? That was never in the picture.” Her voice was trembling with rage. “And whatever this … this Sæmundur did – it was supposed to be a nuisance to Loftkastalinn, not to open a fucking demonic portal in the sky above the city!’
“Do you think I foresaw any of this? That I asked for this? He said he could handle the galdur! Nothing about this was a part of the plan!’
“Who the fuck is this guy? How did he do that?’
“It doesn’t matter. He was the only one who could give us what we needed.”
“What we needed. Right. Those … things. Demons that murdered and possessed innocent people. Was that what we needed? It vanished, Garún. It was there and suddenly, not. Where the fuck did it go?’
“I don’t know. And for what it’s worth, I don’t care.”
“Right. Because who cares about soldiers? Or pilots? Or engineers, chefs, electricians, janitors? They didn’t deserve this. Many of them were regular Hrímlanders, such as you.”
“They were nothing like me,” she said through gritted teeth.
“No. I don’t expect so. They were human.”
Garún punched Katrín as hard as she could. Katrín reeled back, blood flowing from her lip. She stared at her, bewildered, as if she couldn’t believe Garún had laid hands on her. Garún stared her down, dared her to repay the favour.
“Right,” she said. “I’m not human. I’m not proud of what happened today, but if this is what it took, then so be it.”
“So be it? To kidnap this piece of shit? Did I perhaps lose my arm all for him? For a fucking nobody?’
There was a dangerous hint of panic in her voice. She was near breaking point. Garún couldn’t afford to lose her as well. She needed help.
“You know who he is,” said Garún. “Trampe’s right hand. That’s what you said. He was escorted by a royal seiðskratti. He’s someone.”
“So what? What does it matter? He won’t tell us shit. And even though we’re hiding here, where only fucking insane people think to hide, they will find us. They have seiðskrattar. And now that Loftkastalinn is gone, they’ll call for backup. An armada of warships. We’re all fucking dead in the water.”
The wind wailed over the fortress walls.
“Unless we do something drastic.”
Katrín spat blood on the ground and walked inside.
Garún let loose a breath she hadn’t realised she had been holding in. One argument and she had resorted to violence. Ready to ruin everything and completely lose sight of what mattered. Katrín had seemed likely to do the same. They were exhausted, she told herself. Exhausted and under pressure. Maybe this had happened because of the bone up against her heart, cold and still, wrapped in the hate-filled delýsíð sheet, pushing her towards acting on her relentless anger. Or perhaps it had been inevitable.
The sky had begun to grow brighter. Late winter morning was upon them. The light stung her eyes. She headed inside the castle. In the weak dawn gleamed faint outlines of humanoid forms, crowding hungrily around the entrance like maggots on carrion.
* * *
The walls leaned inwards, the shoddy construction giving way after centuries of weathering. The stone floor was muddy and wet. Where the ceiling or walls had collapsed, their path was sometimes blocked by large piles of stone. She managed to squeeze her way past or climb over the stones. There were few windows in the castle and the only light came from her lamp.
The others were resting in a long chamber with a high ceiling. A glimpse of sun made its way through a hole in the roof. At the end of the room was a raised floor, a dais carved into the natural rock in the ground. In its middle was a massive and unshapely stone; in it was a deep bowl, naturally formed. The walls were covered in faded and incomprehensible runes and symbols, all the way up to the roof where the scribbles met. A holy silence lay heavy upon this place.
In one corner were filthy blankets and an assortment of items and junk. Empty wooden bowls, rotten fish skins, piles of discarded bones. Garbage left by whoever had been desperate enough to make this their home for a while.
A vagrant’s bed, Garún thought to herself. That’s my life now.
She threw off her backpack and sat down on the ground. She was exhausted.
Katrín had taken over watching the prisoner for Hraki. He checked on Styrhildur, who was resting, the wraps around her wound stained dark red. She would likely die in the next days unless they got her to a doctor who knew seiður.
“You could take her to Huldufjörður,” Garún said, and sat down next to him.
He shook his head. “They’re probably already there looking for us. We’re fine here.”
“You said this place might save her,” Katrín said. “Earlier.”
“I was upset.”
They left it at that. He was keeping something from them. Garún looked into her backpack and got out a bundle of dried fish. She handed Hraki a piece, and went over to Katrín to offer her some as well. She took it, begrudgingly.
“So this temple keeps … them away?’ asked Katrín, after they had eaten quietly for a while.
“Yes,” said Hraki. “We’ve stayed here before. Years ago. At least we’ve never noticed anything in here. But sometimes going in or out we can see them.”
“Who?’ asked Katrín.
“Ghosts. Afturgöngur. They’re angry but we always manage to get away,” he said between mouthfuls. “It’s only if you move here for good that they take you. Or if you spend too much time outside the temple, in the castle. This room is the only place they avoid.”
“How do you know?’
