The deep blue sheep’s jaw was freezing cold against Garún’s chest, where it was tied with the delýsíð sheet. She ached from the cold and the seething heat of the hatred, but in a good way. The bone hungered, and that hunger sharpened her mind. She would satiate it.
It was time for a reckoning.
* * *
The rain ran down his filthy hair, streaming down his neckline and soaking the rags he wore. Sæmundur was drenched. He hadn’t felt so good for a long time.
A fog had lifted from his mind. The Stone Giant was shining clearly, like a bright beacon. The power of the giant was all around him, but now its centre was clear, obvious. Kölski followed behind Sæmundur. The demon hadn’t spoken another word since Sæmundur had made it rain. If he didn’t know any better, he could have sworn the abomination was sulking.
Every living thing ran from his path, like animals fleeing a fire. Outlaws lay still in hiding, frantically whispering prayers and kukl, incantations of protection against the malevolent being. Him. He was death itself made flesh.
He heard them long before he saw them. They tore through the land like an avalanche. Without any regard, an unstoppable force of destruction. They were supercharged with seiður, drawing in the untamed force from the land and conducting it through themselves so they burned with almighty supernatural force.
Seiðskrattar. Sent after him. They were so mercilessly driving themselves that there was no chance they’d survive. The human body wasn’t intended to handle these amounts of seiðmagn flowing through it in such a short period of time, regardless of how powerful the seiðskratti was. But it didn’t matter. The demon-worshipper should be destroyed, no matter the cost.
The landscape started to writhe as they gained on him. Undulating. Clumps of rock melted again, shining amber-red with heat. Boiling water erupted from freshly formed geysers, steam roaring like a lamenting choir. The earth shook. Trembled from joy or revulsion at the destruction which was being unleashed.
They shone like two suns in the sky. Sparks of lightning flew from the floating human shapes. Their robes were tattered, the black masks like melted wax.
With their seiður came the most wonderful cacophony Sæmundur had ever heard. Like a child hammering a piano but still managing to produce sounds one could call music. Something undisciplined and ugly, but undeniably music.
They stopped at a distance from him. He felt them draw in power, bloat themselves even more with the unending flow of seiðmagn from the land. It looked as if they intended to unleash it all at once. The thaumaturgical explosion would vaporise all of them. The crater would span kilometres. Their plan was to obliterate Sæmundur into molecules, leaving nothing of the demonic infection behind. He felt around them and found the edges of runes of fate and protective incantations which held up a shield against galdur and demonic possession. It would be hard for an average galdramaður to break through these defences in time.
But Sæmundur was no longer an average galdramaður.
He listened to the frequency of their bodies. Of the vibrations of the bones, which resounded with sound and life.
And there he opened a gate.
* * *
Garún jumped up. Again she had been awoken by a sound. Some terrible sound. The oil lamp was lying on the floor next to her. In the fading light she saw Hraki standing by the exit. Away from her, like she was a wild beast.
The sound suddenly stopped. It was her. Her own screams. She felt hot tears on her face. Katrín was kneeling next to her, as if she was about to wake her up, but had hesitated for some reason.
“Are you all right?’ said Katrín in a weak voice.
Garún nodded. “Just a nightmare.”
“I got the boat,” said Hraki. “But it was close. There are houses burning in Huldufjörður. Soldiers. We should get moving.”
The sacrificial stone was a sombre, vague form in the darkness at the end of the hall. She wanted to take a closer look, make sure that it was not filled with blood. But she didn’t have the courage to. Nothing was as terrifying to her as the thought of taking one step towards that stone.
She checked on Styrhildur. Her skin was feverishly hot, sweat beading on her forehead. She hadn’t regained consciousness since they got here. Her breathing was rapid and shallow.
“You’ll stay with her?’ Garún asked. Hraki nodded. “Good.”
“I’ll wait for you,” he said. “Styrhildur will be awake when you come back.”
She nodded, unwilling to shatter his delirious hope.
* * *
The smell of the ocean was a welcome feeling. The waves tumbled up to the beach and made soothing sounds as they drew back the small stones. Garún took a deep breath. She felt a little bit better already. She couldn’t understand how Styrhildur and Hraki had stayed in those ruins for days, perhaps weeks at a time, as children.
“There’s no sense in waiting.” Garún started to push the boat out. “I do not want to spend another minute in this place.”
“Agreed,” said Katrín.
Garún pushed the boat out to sea. Katrín jumped in first, then she followed. Garún rowed, as Katrín’s arm was all but dead weight. Hraki stood still on the shore, alone and helpless with the looming castle ruins behind him. He didn’t move. Garún tried to keep an eye on him, to make sure he went back, but it was dark and cloudy and he quickly melded with the night.
* * *
The pillar was unshapely, a crooked and jagged monument in the wasteland. It stuck from the earth like a dagger in a wound. At a distance it seemed a part of the rough and barren landscape, but as it drew closer it was more apparent that even here in the sorcerous lava fields this rock did not belong. Every day the rocky terrain changed, but the rock’s shape always adhered to the original form that it had taken when it had erupted from the heart of the earth. It was a rock pillar
