Sæmundur stopped at the roots of the Stone Giant. The overwhelming vortex that came pouring over him made his mind reel, swirling around him in powerful waves.
This was the eye of the storm. The epicentre.
Sæmundur walked around the rock. There was nothing unusual about it, except for the lack of geological explanation for its place there. But there was something there. Something so potent that its presence covered the entire land. A sleeping giant who, if disturbed from his sleep, could tear the land apart. Kölski waited while he walked, silent and grave.
The seiðskrattar were hanging in thin air like carcasses hung on meat hooks. The demons infesting their bones had deformed them completely and the long-lasting effects of the seiðmagn in their bodies had started to devour them. It was barely perceptible that the creatures had once been human. He considered sending them back to Reykjavík, to let the Crown taste their own medicine, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He remembered how the cannons had let destruction rain over the city. The demons that must have manifested and torn through the streets. Reykjavík had suffered enough by his hand.
Nothing worked, no matter how he tried. The energy that raged here was too chaotic, too disturbing for him to grasp. He made one of the seiðskrattar float down and reached up to the half-melted mask that was still hanging on their face, tearing out a red lens. Through the gap he saw a crazed eye flickering back and forth, the pupil split in three and dilated. The skin was pale and the veins a patchwork of inky darkness.
He didn’t really need the lens, but it was a matter of concentration rather than utilising the filter in the thaumaturgical lens. He looked through the crimson glass and tried to concentrate. Let everything tune out of focus, so he could glimpse the bigger picture. In the thaumaturgical storm that raged all around him, the rock was shining like a crashed sun. The brightness was overwhelming. But somewhere there, deep within the chaos, was a shape. Glowing blue with arcane power.
Þrjátíu og sex
The fortress of Viðey rose from the horizon. A fortified wall covered the entire island. Over them the towers of the main fortress could be seen. The residence of the stiftamtmaður, one of the oldest buildings of the Crown in Hrímland. The fort had grown and prospered as the years passed. Inside the walls were upscale houses of high-ranking officials and military officers, army barracks, a botanical garden and a small village, where the servants and lower-ranking bureaucrats lived.
Garún knew that Viðey was by now crawling with soldiers and without a doubt more than a handful of seiðskrattar. The fall of Loftkastalinn was an impossible shock, which called for the highest possible state of emergency. It made things harder for them, but they couldn’t afford to wait. With each day that passed the Commonwealth’s net tightened around them.
The approach to the island was the most dangerous part. Everything depended on them getting to the walls unseen. It was impossible to see in the dark, but Garún knew that up there soldiers would be on guard, even more alert than usual. But if there was a seiðskratti up there, gazing out over the battlements to the sea, they might just as well have sailed up on a fine summer day in clear weather. She had her headphones over one ear and listened to the noisefiend. It was more to calm her nerves than to ensure that they approached unseen. It was a long way still to the fortress and the audioskull didn’t have that kind of range.
Her arms burned from exertion. Rowing was difficult, but twice as difficult when trying to be as quiet as possible. The boat creaked with every pull of the oars. The sound merged with the waves, but Garún felt it must be so deafeningly loud that it was impossible to think it would not carry right to the top of the island walls.
“We’re here,” Katrín whispered. “Quick, before we hit the shore.”
The walls towered overhead. They jumped ship and carried the boat up to shore. The beach was rocky, but Garún knew where it would be the sandiest, making the least noise. They carried the boat all the way to the wall, minimising the chance that it would be spotted from above. It slowed down their escape, but if they were outed before having a chance to strike, then it would all be for nothing.
The entrance was a few minutes on foot along the wall. Garún went over her weapons, felt the spot where the bone was cradled up close to her. Everything was in place.
“Ready?’ Katrín asked. Garún nodded.
They started to make their way along the bottom of the wall. The Stone Giant was human.
Or at least, a humanoid being. Sæmundur couldn’t be certain. The torrents of galdur that raged around it and aggravated the seiðmagn in the land still disturbed him, despite hours of sitting still in calm, focused contemplation. He hummed multi-voiced tones with Bektalpher’s mouths, letting them reverberate around him so he became like a vibrating tuning fork. Synchronised. Focused. Nothing.
The landvættur did not react to any of his experiments. No matter how he called out – with a ritual, incantation or pure tones – the being showed no reaction. It was deaf and dumb, bound in some cursed sleep. He started to chant a spell of awakening, trying to rouse the giant from its coma.
It was after some considerable time when Kölski said, unprovoked, “You cannot wake him, for he is already awake.”
Sæmundur ceased his chanting. So, the demon had dropped his formal tone, no longer addressing him as master. He didn’t know if it
